


Jesus Camp

by Alabaster



Category: Supernatural
Genre: "Assume the position.", Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Corporal Punishment, F/M, Homophobia, Homosexuality and religion, M/M, Multi, On Hiatus, Religious Conflict
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2017-12-29 14:15:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alabaster/pseuds/Alabaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael Milton is a good Christian, he has just fallen into one of the traps that Satan has laid out for him. Determined to win back God's approval, Michael does not resist when his parents send him to a boarding school on the other side of the country. Michael wants to recover from his previous errors, but Lucifer Novak is a trap that Michael cannot avoid: a trap that Michael is destined to fall into.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jesus Camp

**Author's Note:**

> I come from an Anglican family and do not believe that all religion practising families hold the same views as the Miltons or Winchesters in this story. It is a work of fiction, and should be treated as such.
> 
> The boarding schools are also fictional. St. Lawrence's is named because I love canon parallels and because there was a St. Lawrence. Lawrence of Rome was one of the seven deacons of ancient Rome, and he served under Pope Sixtus II.
> 
> The title of this work was inspired by the beautiful song Jesus Camp by Now, Now. You can listen to it at the link below.
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QeVya6OJZ_g

Michael Milton is a good Christian. He wakes up, and he prays. He eats breakfast, but before that, he always says Grace. He continues his day with trepidation, and – unlike his peers and others his age – he does not fall into any of the traps that Satan has laid for him. He abstains from alcohol, illegal (and often legal) drugs, sex. He does not fall into temptation. He goes home, and he eats dinner, but before that, he always says Grace. He prays, and he goes to sleep.

But there is a girl. (There is almost always a girl.) This girl is named Naomi, and she has hair that smells like strawberries and feels like feathers. Naomi is in two of Michael's classes: maths and art. In maths, she obediently scribbles down notes like it is the only important thing in her life. In art, she draws things exactly how she thinks the teacher wants to see it.

Michael likes Naomi. He really, really does. Naomi is a law-abiding citizen, and Michael appreciates that. Admires that. She does not fall into any of the traps that Satan has laid for her. She abstains from alcohol, illegal drugs, sex. She does not fall into temptation. Except she does not pray twice a day, or say Grace at every meal, and she is not a good Christian. Michael only discovers this on his third date with her. And he only discovers this because his parents meet Naomi's. Naomi's father is a theoretical physicist, and when Michael's father says this he spits it out like it is a dirty curse word. Michael assumes that it is a curse word for a moment, but then he remembers that his family does not swear, except for when they're really drunk or fighting.

Michael's parents are furious. His father calls Michael a traitor, his mother says that she is ashamed, and Anna offers Michael sympathetic but blaming glances over guilt-ridden family meals. Naomi was a trap that Satan had laid out for Michael, and Michael fell into it. He prays and begs for God's forgiveness, for falling in love with someone so unworthy. Michael vows that he will find a good Christian to fall in love with. He tells God that he will do anything for His forgiveness. Michael thinks of Daniel and the lions and Jonah and the whale, and he wonders if he undertook any of these tasks, would God forgive him?

But then, Michael receives his task from God, and it comes in the form of a brochure. A brochure for an all-male Christian boarding school, with an all-female Christian boarding school for Anna, so that she will grow up to not make any of Michael's mistakes.

Michael does not complain when his parents want to drag him away from all of his friends and force him into a new life, because this is not a punishment or treatment from his parents, but a test from God. Michael graciously accepts the test and sends his thanks to God, saying _thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you_ until his throat hurts.  


 

Kansas. St. Lawrence's School for Boys is in Kansas. There are eighty nine students in attendance and Michael will make ninety. Michael will never make the acquaintance of his eighty nine counterparts, but the majority of them are simply duplicates of Michael.

There are three exams for St. Lawrence's. The first is academics. A pass is 89.2. Michael makes the grade with 91.3. The second is religion, in which Michael has to write about his love for God. He almost falters about fifty times, because there are moments when he questions what it means to love God. Michael's trips are not enough to keep him away from the third exam, which is a formal meeting with the headmaster, John Winchester.

Michael hesitates when the headmaster extends a hand towards him. Michael does not want to shake the hand of the man who has his education (and, effectively, relationship with God) resting on a pedestal. But, recalling his manners, Michael takes the Headmaster's hand in his. Michael's palms are sweaty and his fingers are trembling, but despite that Michael manages to produce a somewhat firm and steady handshake, coupled with a polite: “Michael Milton, Sir. It is an honour to meet you. Thank you, so much for the opportunity to...”

Michael is halted by a soft laugh. John Winchester does not look like the sort of person who should be running a high school so focused on religion, Michael thinks. He looks uncomfortable in his dark suit and he doesn't seem to have shaven for a couple of days.

(But it is not up to Michael to pass judgement.)

“An honour to meet you too, Milton,” the Headmaster informs him, and his appearance – which could be casual – does not match the edge to his voice. Even the brief laughter that Michael heard earlier sounds almost bitter. Michael ignores this.

“Will we take a tour of the school, Milton?” Headmaster Winchester asks, and Michael nods hastily. All he can think about, all he has thought about, is the moment he will walk these school grounds, walk a school that has not been embedded with sin and those who have fallen into Satan's traps.

The Headmaster looks smug at Michael's enthusiasm. If Michael didn't know better, he'd say that the Headmaster made a joke that he didn't understand.

There are several blocks of the school. There is Bible, Religious Studies, Maths, English, Language, Music, History, Geography, Physical Education, Visual Arts, Drama, but most surprisingly, Science. Michael finds this very interesting.

A loud bell rings and Michael flinches at the sudden rush of students spilling out of the classrooms and flooding onto the pavement, and the Headmaster looks like he wants to laugh but can't. He seems to have timed their location aptly, because soon enough the Headmaster was shouting out for one particular student. “Dean!”

A boy, who has to be Michael's age, turns around and looks back at the Headmaster with annoyed green eyes. “What is it, Dad?” he asks as he steps towards the Headmaster, who also seem to be Dean's father. Michael blinks at the pair in confusion.

“Dean, don't be rude,” the Headmaster reprimands, and that somehow does the trick, because Dean straightens up slightly at the order. “Yes, Sir.” Michael cannot detect even the slightest sliver of sarcasm.

“Dean, this is our newest student, Michael Milton.” (Michael hasn't even been accepted into the school yet, but if he was being introduced as 'the new student', he took it as a very good sign.) “Milton, this is my son, Dean Winchester.” Michael nods. “Hello.”

Dean nods back, acknowledging Michael in lieu of a greeting, and then turns back to his father. “Can I help with anything?”

The Headmaster appraises Dean with his eyes, giving his son a brief looking over. “You can start by tucking in your shirt and fixing your top button,” he commands, and Dean looks briefly flustered before shoving the hem of his shirt into his well-pressed trousers and hastily adjusting the buttons of his blouse. “Yes, Sir,” he mumbles under his breath as he tidies his appearance, smoothing over each article of clothing. The Headmaster observes the changes and Michael shifts uncomfortably, wondering if his tie was too loose or shoes not polished enough. Dean's uniform, once straightened out, reigns immaculate supremacy. It consists of a navy blazer, clean white shirt, an unflattering but scholarly pair of dark grey trousers, and a blue-and-white striped tie.

Michael can feel the appraising stares of other students around him as they bustle off to their next class, and Michael stands up straight, dropping his hands to his sides, as if he has something to prove but is willing to prove it. He is fresh meat, and wants to be seen as deli-cut, prime rib.

The Headmaster turns back to Michael, and says, “Dean will take you to the common rooms and dormitories, I'm certain that he doesn't want to attend double maths.”  
Dean offers his father back a grin. “Yes, Sir!”

The Headmaster nods, and before Michael can ask any more questions, walks through the halls, abandoning Michael with Dean.

Dean pushes them both through the halls, and Michael has a difficult time keeping up with Dean. “Mike, isn't it?” he asks, shooting a quick look behind him.

Michael shakes his head. “Michael,” he corrects, and Dean looks back a second time like he needs to see if Michael was being serious. Dean gives Michael an odd glance that makes it seem as though Michael's insane for not wanting to be nicknamed by Dean, and then mutters something that Michael half-expects to be “weird kid” but is just “suit yourself”.

He wonders if he should have accepted the nickname. Maybe Dean is short for something? Michael asks himself, but he doesn't speak out loud. He just respectably follows Dean as he leads him across a large grassy field towards a tall, Victorian building. “So, what are you in here for?”

Michael splutters. “Sorry?” he repeats. Dean walks fast and he's still having a difficult time keeping up, now also with conversation.

Dean snickers. “What are you in for?” he repeats.

It seems like a question better asked in a prison or mental asylum. “I don't underst...”

A sigh escapes Dean's parted lips, which are impressively feminine, Michael realises. “Normal Christian kids don't rock up to St. Lawrence's, right? It's all lost causes and-slash-or 'miserable sinners'.” He announces that with air quotes and Michael flushes. He hadn't realised...

“Me and Sam are just here for our father. I think Dad wants us to set some kinda 'prime example', which Sammy does but I don't. I'll do what Dad tells me to, but really, what's the fun in doing what people say if they ain't your blood?” Michael wants to say that there is no fun, and that isn't the point with rules, but he doesn't. He just shrugs. Dean continues, “You've got Adam, his Mum was killed and he was ditched with his uncle, but then the kid started acting out. Set fire to his uncle's garage or something and ended up here.” Michael stares back at Dean with wide eyes. Does dating a sinner equate to arson?

Probably, he thinks. It's probably much worse, too.

Dean doesn't stop there. “Then you got kids like Cas who, let's be honest, wouldn't hurt a fly, but they've got more issues than wits, so they drop them off here. Or someone like...”  
There is another boy, leant against the ageing wood of a twisty tree, one foot propped up against his other leg and his arms folded over his chest, far too casually. He looks like he knows something that Michael doesn't, and Michael has so many secrets and thoughts bottled up that the expression is terrifying. The boy is blonde, and looks like a typically rich American boy that wants to rebel against his parents, particular with the state of his uniform: there is no blazer, no tie, just a haphazard white shirt and skinny jeans replacing the trousers – as well as a scuffed and disallowed pair of Converse trainers on his feet.

“Who's that?” Michael interrupts, not remembering his manners at that point in time.

Dean doesn't mind, just crooks his neck to try and see who Michael means.

Michael points a finger in the destination of the ancient Willow tree, but the smirking boy is gone. Michael's heart sinks, and Dean just shrugs. “Imagining things, dude?” Michael stares at the tree in shock, which earns him a laugh from Dean.

“Don't worry, you ain't the first to picture a stranger in a dump like this.”

Michael nods and dumbly follows Dean across the last stretch of grass that the field has to offer before they, at long last, arrive in the common room.

The exterior looks old and faded, but inside has clearly been refurbished. There is a large television screen, a well-used pool table with a ping pong ball in place of the regulation white ball, and a scratched ping pong table with a tennis ball and couple of racquets in the middle, which makes Michael smile.

“Welcome to the jungle!” Dean says, opening up his arms with an expression best described as fatherly pride, and Michael smiles. There is a desk in the corner with the initials 'S.W.' and 'D.W' etched into it, aside a bookshelf that seems 95% religion-focused. Judging by the lack of creases on the paperback spines, the books aren't touched very regularly. Except for a large, leather-bound Holy Bible, and the edges of the pages are so yellowed and old that it seems homely and familiar to Michael.

“We got fun and games,” Dean quotes, from a song that Michael faintly remembers but can't quite place in his head. (It seems like a sinful piece of music, anyway.) Dean gestures to the pool and ping pong table, and then walks out of the common room. “There's no Internet, no telephones, so even if it doesn't seem like much, it's gonna have to be enough.”

Michael nods. He doesn't think that his family want to commune with him and he has no use for the Internet. If you ask, he won't be able to tell you what Facebook is – or Twitter, or Tumblr, or MySpace... that kind of social networking could and does lead to all kinds of sinning.

“There are four floors, including this one,” Dean says, nodding at the large cedar staircase. “You probably know this already, but the people that come here are all guys, in years ten, eleven, and twelve. There's a girls school across the road, but 'fraternising' is limited, but if I'm honest, totally awesome. Then, on the other side of town, there's two schools for the younger kids, years seven, eight, and nine,” Dean explains boredly, and Michael wonders how many times he has had to tell a new student this. Eighty nine?

“The floor above this is the tenth grade one, and all those kids are dweebs with their heads buried in a bible and Genesis spilling out of their un-kissed, braced mouths,” Dean says with a snicker. Michael manages to pull of a weak laugh, but this is a Christian school: is it actually unusual for the students to read religious works?

“But you're in eleventh, right?” Dean enquired, and Michael responds with a “yes.” Dean grins. “Ditto, man!” Dean holds up a hand and Michael slaps it in response. “Once you come outta your shell a bit, I bet you'll be an awesome addition to the God squad. We're on third floor up, and you'll probably be in Room E. Don't worry, Raph's wound a bit tight – kinda like you, but no offence, dude – but Gabe's awesome. On the other hand, you got to put up with L...”

“Dean?” a voice interrupts, and it does not belong to Michael, but to John Winchester. Michael feels his heart sink, and then pound because the Headmaster's tone reeks of authority.

“Yeah, Dad?” Dean and Michael both turn around.

“Michael's parents are here.” Michael can't stand how the Headmaster talks about him as though he isn't there, but he remains silent. “Milton, although nothing is final yet, your application to the school is very promising. You seem like a model student for St. Lawrence's.” Dean scoffs, yet the Headmaster remains seemingly unaware. Michael doesn't make a sound. A couple of hours ago, model student would have been a compliment but now, Michael feels as though he has been labelled as a delinquent. He feels dirty, ashamed. He knows that now, more than ever, he must win back God's love.

“Give me a couple of seconds with Michael?” Dean asks, and the Headmaster says yes. He steps out of the common room, which feels more natural for Michael: the Headmaster seemed out of place to begin with.

Dean leans in close to Michael and whispers right in his ear, “Don't come here, dude.”

Michael stares back quizzically.

“Why are you Christian?” Dean asks, and Michael wonders if this is a trick question.

“Because I love God,” Michael answers, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world.

“Then don't come here. This place messes with your head, a lot. It doesn't teach you to love God.”

Michael still looks confused, so Dean finishes, “You'll stop being a Christian because you love God and start because you hate evil,” he hisses, and Michael doesn't have time to reply because Dean is walking out of the common room and Michael is blindly following.

 

  
Michael walks across the green field, with John Winchester and Dean Winchester either side of him and he feels confused and torn, but nothing, not even Dean's warnings, can heed him from coming to this school: he needs this, he needs God's forgiveness. As they trek across the grass, Michael sees him again: the cheeky blonde boy that looked so self-aware that it felt almost bitter. Michael doesn't hesitate to direct the Winchesters' attention to the young man. “Him,” he says. The boy is now sitting cross-legged by the same willow tree as before, headphones on his ears and an iPod by his side as he reads a magazine. Michael is confused, as he had been informed that all three of those items were contraband.

“Who is he?” Michael asks, looking at Dean for an answer. It is not Dean who replies, however, but the Headmaster.

“Lucifer Novak,” the Headmaster answers, like that is all that Michael needs to know, but he has turned to stare at the Headmaster curiously so the Headmaster finishes with, “Our delinquent lost cause.”

Michael turns back to look at the boy, who has pushed his magazine and headphones aside simply to stare back at Michael, and Michael has never felt so unwanted in his life, not even when his father screamed hateful words at him, shouting out that Michael was a broken sinner.

 

 

There are several rules at St. Lawrence's. They are the traditional, expected rules: no smoking, no alcohol, no illegal drugs. They are the usual but not as thoroughly followed through rules: wear correct uniform, no public displays of affection. There are the odd rules, such as limited legal drugs. There are a couple of rules that you would simply be insane to break: no pre-marriage intercourse, an homosexual behaviour is strictly forbidden. There is one major rule, however, in all-capitals, bold font, at the bottom of the student handbook:

_If the Word of God claims it to be wrong, then so it is.  
_


	2. Menace to Stability

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael arrives at St. Lawrence's and meets his room-mates. A trickle of chaos ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my two beautiful reviewers from the first chapter! You're all amazing, and feedback is appreciated.

The trip from Lansing to Topeka takes eleven hours, and by the time that the Miltons arrive back home, Anna barely wants to speak to her older brother. When Michael tries to talk to her, to get her to tell him what's wrong, she turns back and spits at him.

“If you weren't such a sinner, I wouldn't have to leave. None of this would have happened,” she snaps, and she speaks with this rare aggression that Michael has never heard from his sister before. It is that thought that keeps him wide awake on rain-ridden nights, the thought that he, his sins, and St. Lawrence's, may have changed Anna permanently.

He tries not to think about this, however, because despite Anna's hateful remarks and glares for the next week, and despite Dean Winchester's warnings, Michael needs God's forgiveness and it is what he will die for.

 

 

Michael and Anna are not driven to Kansas after they both receive letters of acception for their respective schools, St. Lawrence's and St. Mary's. This is a blessing, as Michael does not have to survive through an eleven hour car drive in complete silence, where all he has to entertain him is the way that Anna stares, flatly annoyed, at her older brother.

Instead, he and Anna catch a plane, which is better because Anna can only stare at him for about three hours. If looks could kill, perhaps Michael would have been cremated by take-off.

Michael and Anna take a taxi from Topeka to what is the middle of nowhere, and Michael needs to give directions to the taxi driver – who leaves them to walk their own way the remaining way after a while because, “sorry kids, this is way out of my radius as it is.” Michael sighs, thanks him, reluctantly tips him, and him and Anna walk almost half a mile until they reach the near barren road that leads to their schools. Anna abandons Michael without so much as a hasty 'goodbye', flouncing away from her brother to St. Mary's, and Michael huffs in a large breath before he makes his own unwanted trek towards St. Lawrence's, which seems like one of the most daunting places in the world right now.

The school seems larger, more imposing than it did on Michael's first two visits. He tries to push open the large cobalt-blue gates, but finds that they are locked with an automated system.

Awkwardly, Michael looks around for help. It's 2pm on a Saturday, and yet the campus is completely silent. Michael is prepared to give up, and he sits down on the cement – warmed by Autumnal Kansas sun – and tries not to cry. He isn't sure why there are tears in his eyes, but he feels as though he's bordering on losing his mind.

“Milton, correct?” a voice booms from behind him. It isn't John Winchester, or a student, but when Michael turns around he can't help but think that it is actually worse.

Firstly, the man terrifies him. He is tall, very tall, much taller than Michael, and quite well-built. He is black, and Michael can't quite estimate his age, which sort of bothers him. However, this man positively looms over him, and Michael hastily scrambles up into standing position.

“Yes, Sir,” he says instantly, and he reflexively starts to apologise but the man cuts in.

“Uriel. I will be your room attendant,” the man informs Michael, and Michael wants to ask where every one else is, but decides that his question would be seen foolish to Uriel, so he just nods and keeps his mouth shut.

“I assume that you didn't notice the Intercom Wireless?” Uriel asks, pointing to the black box against the fence that seems like a new and foreign innovation to Michael.

“I didn't,” Michael agrees, and Uriel sighs. “I miss Ash already,” he mutters, and Michael doesn't inquire as to who Ash is. Uriel digs out a key from his dark coat pocket, unlocking the azure gates, then pushing them open and Michael thinks that Uriel looks deliberately triumphant. Perhaps he gets his kicks out of terrifying new students.

Michael drags his suitcase alongside him as Uriel leads him down the pathway and over the field (Michael has a slight amount of difficult pulling his case over the grassy hills, but Uriel doesn't offer any assistance and Michael doesn't want him to) until they reach the dormitories. “The other boys are on an excursion, which are usually scheduled every Saturday from 10am to 4pm,” Uriel informed Michael. Michael read this in the student brochure, and he feels _very_ foolish for forgetting, but even more so _relieved_ for not posing his earlier question, so he nods and tries to look interested.

They arrive at the dormitories, and Uriel gestures for Michael to enter the common room, which Michael does. He expects Uriel to follow him through, but Uriel just stands in the doorway. Michael frowns and look across at Uriel quizzically. “I was simply asked to guide you to the dormitory, Milton. You are on floor three, room E. Your school uniform and books are on your bed, which if I remember correctly, is 1.”

Michael takes in all of this information. “Good luck. I sense that you will be an excellent addition to the school,” Uriel tells Michael before he sweeps off.

Michael walks around the common room, noting the scratches on the television and the DVD collection, which has nothing rated higher than PG-13 and the CD collection that seems to be all hymns and gospel. Michael has never found anything more stereotypical of a Christian boarding school. He looks over at the pool table and ping pong table that he recalled from last time, and the desk and the bookshelf, and it feels odd to be here a second time and knowing that there will be third, fourth, infinite amounts of times after this one.

He meanders up the staircase, dragging his suitcase along and wincing as the wheels clunk against the wood, but the sound soothes him after a moment. It's slow and steady and uneven and matches his heart rate.

He takes a second flight of stairs until he reaches his designated story. He moves through the hallway and finds Room E. There is a sign on the door.

**11: E**

Monitored by ~~Uriel~~ MOM  <3

NOVAK, Lucifer

NOVAK, Gabriel

SHURLEY, Raphael

MILTON, Michael

Michael doesn't like that his name is in different print to the rest, it makes it stand out, but he can hardly complain.

He opens the door and steps inside, and whatever he was expecting, it isn't that. He expects everything to look the same, but there is a lot of individuality and it makes this terrifying school seem more personal, it makes the people more real.

Bed One is laid with simple white bed-sheets, and three fresh school uniforms – as well as a box presumably of school books – are placed delicately on the sheets. There are signs above each bed with names, and sure enough 'MILTON, Michael' is above Bed One. Michael doesn't think he will ever get used to be addressed by his last name, but unfortunately he will have to try.

Bed Two has the name 'NOVAK, Lucifer' above it, and isn't that a name that sends shivers down Michael's spine? Michael doesn't even know Lucifer, but the way that the other teenager looked at him on their first encounter is fear-invoking. Lucifer's corner of the room is so unexpected that Michael does a double take. There is a large collection of books scattered everywhere, all leather-bound and seemingly vintage, like they have existed for centuries. When Michael takes a few steps closer, he realises that technically, they have existed for centuries – or at least, some of them. They are all classic novels, but not too classic: the rare sort of literature that practically oozed reader affluence and intelligence. _Nineteen Eighty-Four_ and _Maurice_ and... is that _Hamlet_? Lucifer, the apparent juvenile delinquent, reads Shakespeare and on the side, a bit of Nabokov. Michael is taken aback, but he can't help that his fingertips skim the spine of Lucifer's worn out copy of _Brave New World_ curiously. Lucifer has more depth to him than being the rebelling boy who cuts classes, Michael can sense this, just by glancing at a simple haphazard book collection.

Bed Three belongs to Raphael, who owns many books, but they totally contrast Lucifer's taste. Raphael's books are works of fact rather than weaving of fiction: the majority of which are about medicine, about the human body and brain.

Bed Four belongs to Gabriel, and when Michael turns to face it, it is a pure explosion of geek. There are Doctor Who posters, a Spock plush toy on the bed, as well as a large locked box that is only half pushed underneath the bed. Michael's fingers itch with curiosity, but picking the lock may not be a sure-fire way to win friendship with his brand new room-mates.

Michael sighs and turns to his corner, and realises that he has no way of personalising it. He has no interests, unlike those he will shortly be co-habituating with.

Michael unpacks his suitcase slowly, organising everything into his assigned closet space and cupboards. He puts everything in all the wrong places, and ends up setting down his Bible in the same drawer as his underwear, far too distracted with nerves. He is not prepared for 4pm to roll around.

 

 

Michael sits on his bed in his fresh school uniform: pristine blouse, pressed blazer, prim dress pants, polished shoes; staring at the door and waiting for it to open and awaiting for his room-mates to stroll in.

That does not, happen, however. His room-mates seem to burst in, full of life and colour – or, at least, the first is. It isn't Lucifer, but that's all Lucifer really knows. He's a bundle of everything bright, laughing and joking and telling Raphael (so this makes the bundle of brightness Gabriel?) to get the stick out of his ass. (Michael flinches at the obscene colloquial language.) As all three students file into the room, Michael realises that they aren't wearing their school uniforms, and he feels immediately foolish. Gabriel is dressed in a dark red shirt and army green jacket, Raphael wears a respectable collared black shirt, but then Michael catches a glance at Lucifer and everything seems to fall apart right before his eyes.

Lucifer is not wearing anything new to Michael. In Lansing, Michael is used to seeing this type of outfit, but it seems deliciously sinful in a Christian boarding school. Lucifer's shirt is white, if not a little transparent, and is very, very tight. It is as though the shirt has been designed for one purpose: accentuating Lucifer's broad shoulders and clinging to the muscles and hanging from the sharp bones – and even though Michael cannot quite see he can sense the way that Lucifer's abdomen ripples, perhaps oceanically, with every step. It does not help that Lucifer also wears bright red denim jeans, with three rips: two in the left upper thigh, one in the right knee, slung so low around Lucifer's waist that a pair of navy blue Calvin Klein underwear is disturbingly visible underneath the jeans.

Michael forgets how to breathe, until Gabriel gasps loud enough to remind him. “Praise the Lord! It has arrived!”

Michael scowls, objecting to the lack of personification, but he tries to sound polite. “Uh, hello? I'm, Michael Milton!”  
“Yeah, yeah, we know who you are, hot stuff!”

If this wasn't a Christian boarding school, Gabriel would be flirting.

(But this is a Christian boarding school, and Gabriel is not flirting.)

“Mike, isn't it?” Gabriel asks, and Michael stammers.

“Uh, no,” he corrects Gabriel, “just Michael.”

“Just Michael,” Gabriel scoffs. “I swear, you and Raph are already gonna be bunk buddies.”

Michael gives a side glance to Raphael, and notices the assortment of room mates. Lucifer is white, with blonde hair that looks feather-soft, and blue eyes that seem like a bitter oxymoron: pools of ice. Raphael is dark-skinned, with eyes so studying it hurts, and Gabriel has golden eyes and golden hair, and seems like a due personification of his namesake archangel.

“Are you two related?” Michael asks Gabriel, his finger wavering at the gap between Gabriel and Lucifer. Michael does not look at Lucifer. If he does, he may lose his mind all over again.

Gabriel sighs, as if it is some awful treachery he does not want to talk about. “Unfortunately, yeah,” he answers with a faux pained wince, flopping down onto the Star Wars sheets of Bed Four. “Fraternal twins. We got a little brother in the grade below us, too, Cassie. He's a cutie pie.”

Lucifer snorts. Michael still doesn't acknowledge the other boy's existence.

“So, Mike!” Gabriel starts, and Michael mutters under his breath, “Michael.”

Gabriel waves a carefree, despondent hand through the air. “Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, Cheerful.”

Michael presses his lips together and frowns slightly, not entirely realising that his reaction is the type of thing that will fuel Gabriel on further.

“What are you here for?” Gabriel asks, rolling over onto his stomach, leaning on his elbows and propping his chin onto the palms of his hands as he looks across at Michael.

Michael freezes: it's almost the identical to a question that Dean Winchester once asked him. Before, Michael managed to worm his way out of the question, but this time, there is no such luck. Three pairs of eyes are on Michael, and while Michael can remain unaffected by Gabriel and Raphael's waiting expressions, he can feel Lucifer's prompting glare like it sears right through Michael's skin, like it _forces_ Michael to answer. Michael swallows hard and stammers out some excuse about how he needed God's forgiveness, because it's a half-truth.

“Well, we all got some issues with the man upstairs,” Gabriel intercedes quickly, and Michael lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding: he isn't getting out of this one so easily.

“I... um... dated this girl,” Michael starts, unsure, and Gabriel lets out a loud barking laugh that takes Michael by surprise.

“That's funny,” Gabriel says, still laughing loudly. Suddenly, Lucifer's glare at Michael can't be felt any more, as if Lucifer has diverted his attention, and even Raphael's lips are twitched into a minuscule smile. “Luci's here for dating a boy.”

Michael freezes, and as if he's on an auto-control system, tells Lucifer, “Homosexuality is sinful.”

Gabriel snickers. “Not if you ask Dave and John.”

Raphael narrows his eyes at Gabriel disparagingly, like he has heard that answer before, and Gabriel seems to bat that look off with a carefree wave of his hand.

Lucifer isn't glaring daggers at Michael any more, but the ensuing tone completely carves through Michael's bone, engraving a disturbing message that Michael can't translate, and Michael shivers: “It is a sin, but I doubt it was worse than yours.”

Michael tilts his head, but he is looking at the space beside Lucifer's symmetrical face rather than meeting those lucid eyes. “How would you know that?”

“Because sin is... immeasurable,” Lucifer declares, “God despises of all sin, but He does not have any opinions on which is worse.”

Michael fumbles for a reply and fails. Lucifer shrugs and smirks. “So, what did you do, Mike?”

Michael swallows before murmuring, “I... the girl... she was an atheist. Her father worked in Science.”

A loud band of _ooh_ rebounds through the room. “Wow, that's... hey, how come you let him call you Mike?” Gabriel asks, frowning like a wounded animal, and Michael isn't sure if it's sarcastic or not..

“You're being pathetic again, Brother,” Lucifer chastises.

Michael frowns.

He hadn't even noticed that Lucifer had called him Mike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The all-female boarding school is named St. Mary's, which is again, because I adore canon parallels. There is a St. Mary's cathedral and suburb in Sydney, and St. Mary also often refers to the mother of Jesus.
> 
>  **References in this chapter**  
>  _Nineteen Eighty-Four:_ A dystopian novel written by George Orwell and published in 1949. Airstrip One (formerly Great Britain) is a country of constant surveillance, mind control, dictatorship, ruled by Big Brother - who may or may not even be real - considered to be a metaphor for God.  
>  _Maurice:_ A novel written by E.M. Forster not published until after his death due to controversy, a story about same-sex love in 1909-13 England.  
>  _Hamlet:_ The famous Shakespearean play, with heavy themes such as treachery, insanity, incest, revenge, and corruption.  
>  _Vladimir Nabokov:_ A Russian-born author perhaps most famous for his novel Lolita, in which the middle-aged narrator is obsessed with his twelve-year-old stepdaughter.  
>  _Brave New World:_ A novel written by Aldous Huxley, published in 1932, containing compelling topics such as sleep-learning, psychological manipulation, operant conditioning, and reproductive technology.  
>  (On another note, I highly recommend that you read these books. They are all fantastic.)
> 
> Dave and John refers to David and Jonathan, two men with an extraordinarily strong friendship in 1 Samuel, The Bible. Although it has been heavily denied by many Christians, David and Jonathan could be thought of as homosexual. David declared that he loved Jonathan more than he loved women, and the soul of David was knitted with the soul of Jonathan, and each man loved the other as if they were their own soul. I feel as though this an important part of The Bible to mention in this fic and I will probably expand on it in later chapters. I feel as though it is something that needs further exploration in this AU. For more information, see: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_and_Jonathan#Homoeroticism


	3. Glorify God

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't upload anything last week, I had my yearly exams! Sorry! Enjoy this, though. Please let me know if you find any errors, I haven't had the opportunity to properly check it yet.

Michael is lead out of the dormitories by his room-mates, and is partially aware of the banter between the two brothers: Gabriel is chattering away incandescently about how unfair the lack of female socialising is. “Honestly, we're not allowed to be into men, but they don't really give us much choice, do they?” he asks, with a meaningful nudge to Lucifer's ribcage. Lucifer scowls, and Michael and Raphael watched the brotherly row with, respectively, confusion and annoyance. Michael wonders as if this is a regular occurrence; Raphael wonders when it will end. 

The boys have all changed into their school uniforms, and although Raphael wears it with the same amount of distinction as Michael tries to maintain, Lucifer and Gabriel seem to share a rebellious gene, because both of the brothers have abandoned their ties and blazers, although at least Gabriel has had the decency to put on his dress pants – Lucifer remains in those torn scarlet jeans that are so bright they could stop the traffic in Alaska. 

Michael absolutely hates those jeans.

 

 

Michael is sitting down on an uncomfortable plastic chair at a table with seven other boys in the Dining Hall, which is crowded, but, according to Dean Winchester, could get much more crowded.

“There's usually thirty more of us,” Dean explains to Michael, “But everyone in Ten is in deep shit. Sammy told me that they found porn in Kevin Tran's room.”

The entire table laughs (bar a couple of people, who seem to have no sense of humour, and Michael – who doesn't know who Kevin Tran is.)

“No way,” Garth – a scrawny and casual guy who seems more ecstatic to be alive than even Gabriel – laughs. “Kev? Are you sure it was porn and not some illegitimate astrophysics textbook?”

Dean holds up his hands. “Hey, that's what I heard. But Sam said that Kevin's claiming it wasn't his – man, some people just can't accept that it's okay to have a few magazines here and there. But because Kevin won't admit it's his, there's a full-blown intervention going on for Year Ten to find out who put it there.”

Gabriel snickers, “Oh, man. That's rough.”  
“You're telling me,” Dean says with a cheeky grin, “'Cause if they start searching Eleven and find my Busty Asian Beauties stash, I'm screwed.”

Ezekiel, who has remained generally quiet throughout the first few minutes of pre-dinner chatter, interjects, “I do not think that discussion about women with large breasts is appropriate.”

“What did you want talk about, then?” Balthazar pipes up in a clear English accent. (Rumour has it that Balthazar went through every Christian boarding school in the United Kingdom and is now corrupting the States.) “Men with large breasts? Ezekiel, you kinky bastard!”

Ezekiel stares across at Balthazar. He opens his mouth to say something, but silence seeps through the room like a stain and everyone swivels around to face the podium at the front of the Dinner Hall. Michael realises this and does the same. John Winchester is on the podium. Then everybody in Dinner Hall rises into standing position, which Michael notices on time and stands also. Lucifer remains slouched comfortably on his chair, but Gabriel stamps heavily on his brother's foot. Lucifer hisses out an _ouch_ but scrambles up, taking Gabriel's hint.

Michael expects the group to start mumbling out Grace, but John Winchester has an important announcement apparently, because all is silent. “One fault in the American education system,” the man starts, and Michael can't help but note that the Headmaster has shaved but the bags under his eyes are even more prominent. “Is that before learning, discipline must exist.”

Michael hears a slight scoff. He doesn't have a problem believing that it comes out of Lucifer's mouth.

The Headmaster continues, and Michael cannot believe the fervour that man manages to speak with. “I will not have some of our students tainting others! I am sure that you are all aware of the incident that has taken place within the tenth grade today, am I correct?” Headmaster Winchester says, and that is when Michael makes a terrible mistake.

At his previous school, it would have been considered rude to not answer a direct question from someone with John Winchester's authority, and Michael thought those regulations would still be intact at St. Lawrence's.

The room is silent as one voice rises above: “Yes, Sir.”

When Michael realises that he was the only one to speak, John Winchester's glare fixated on him was red hot enough to fuel all of the trains in Alaska for a month, and Michael can already feel himself melting. But then there's one voice behind him, that repeats Michael's very words with an extra coating of sarcasm: “Yes, Sir!” Dean Winchester, Michael realises, and he feels an odd feeling of acceptance flutter inside his stomach.

Then, a chorus of voices echo throughout the room, and Michael can only recognise a few: Gabriel, Raphael, Balthazar, Ezekiel, Garth, but there are at least thirty more – all people that Michael is yet to meet. They all say two words: “Yes, Sir.”

There is one voice, however, that does not join in: Lucifer's. Michael cannot hear the infuriating blonde boy with the bright red jeans' voice amongst the others. And that shouldn't hurt at all, but all the same, it does.

However profound the situation may have been, with the boys rushing to Michael's defence, it serves to only enrage John Winchester. “This is exactly what I am talking about!” John Winchester announces, his voice so loud Michael feels his bones tremble. “This defiance, from young men, not even adults yet! It must end!”

Michael has never felt so sheepish in his life. His face is bright red, because he never meant to be defiant, it was accidental and if he could take it back he would, but he cannot, and he simply has to deal with John Winchester's heated glare.

“Room inspections will commence for each of you,” John Winchester announces, and Lucifer groans very _very faintly_ next to Michael. “This is the first step of the regime. There are to be no exceptions. The inspections will be taking place tomorrow morning during your first lessons. The following items are contraband.” (The headmaster produces a sheet of paper from his pocket, and takes – in Michael's opinion – far too long to unfold it.) “Alcohol, illegal drugs, legal drugs, mobile phones, laptop computers, pornographic materials. And, anyone caught wearing incorrect uniform will have their home clothes confiscated and destroyed,” he adds, and Michael can relax finally, because the Headmaster's glare has shifted to Lucifer. “We are not taking these direct acts of defiance lightly any more. None of this follows the Will of God and I cannot tolerate insolence any longer,” the Headmaster announces, and with that, marches off stage and, if the man didn't terrify Michael, then he could almost call the man's stalking infantile.

The silence of the room fades into hearty chatter as the boys sit back down. Gabriel nudges Dean and with a smirk so bright it probably should not exist, mutters, “Guess it's time to burn the mags, huh, Dean?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Shut up,” he chastises Gabriel. The boys are the first table to be guided off by a teacher into the kitchens to be given their meals.

It is a shameful attempt at spaghetti bolognese, and Michael isn't even hungry. But he eats all of it up, before realising that they did not even say Grace.

 

 

After dinner, Raphael and Gabriel announce that they are on kitchen duty, which leaves red-jeaned and severely-embarrassed Lucifer and Michael to walk back to the dorm rooms by themselves. Lucifer can't stop grinning, like he's been waiting to be alone with Michael for a while, but Michael is silent, even when Lucifer flops down on his bed and stares at Michael, who is sheepishly sitting on the edge of his own bed.

Lucifer studies Michael for a long moment before saying – no, _purring –_ “Damn, you're pretty, Mike.”

Michael actually squeaks, a noise which he is deeply ashamed of. “I'm not... Lucifer, I'm not...”

Lucifer snorts and rolls his eyes. “Don't worry, Mike. I'm not flirting, just stating a fact.”

If the words were meant to calm Michael, then they had the exact opposite effect, and Michael realises that he must look very uncomfortable, because soon enough Lucifer is rummaging through his bedside drawer. “You gotta lighten up,” Lucifer informed Michael, and soon enough the blonde had a small, white packet in his hands.

“Lucifer, are they...”  
Cigarettes. Lucifer pulled two out of the packet, one for each pang of disgust that wrenched through Michael's gut. Lucifer quirked a nonchalant eyebrow. “What? They're gonna be confiscated tomorrow. I say we make the most of them now.”

Michael shakes his head fast enough that he is surprised when his neck doesn't snap.

“Bible never mentioned anything about tobacco,” Lucifer mutters, but respectfully places the cigarettes back in their respective packet and the packet is slid into the drawer.

“We gotta pass the time somehow, though,” Lucifer says, and Michael considers that for a while before piping up, “Why are you here?”

“You know,” Lucifer replies, adding an eye roll for effect. “Snogged a boy and ended up here. Big deal.”

Michael very earnestly answers with, “But that's not the whole story.”

Lucifer snorts out loud, tucking his finger into one of the small tears in the damned jeans. He slowly drags his finger, ripping at the stitching even further and enlarging the hole. “No one ever wants the full story.”

“I do.”

Lucifer's eyes seem to implore the depths of Michael's soul before he nods slowly. “'Kay, then. I'll tell you exactly what happened?”

Michael nods. He feels like a child about to be taught a lesson but it isn't the worst thing he has felt in this past hour.

“My maths tutor. He was about... twenty six, I think.” Michael shivers. That would have had to be about a ten year age difference at the time, right? “I really liked him, y'know, thought I was in love with him because it was the first guy I'd ever felt something towards,” Lucifer explained. The idea of a male being with a male made Michael feel ill, his stomach squirming, and yet he listened simply out of curiosity – he had to be just as sick as Lucifer, didn't he?

“So... you kissed him?”

“Nope,” Lucifer replies promptly with a devilish grin that makes Michael's skin crawl. “I gave him the best damn blow job of his life.”  
Michael sits up suddenly, automatically walking towards the tiny window that he didn't even know was there, opening it wide. Lucifer laughs heartily from behind him. “You wanna hear the details, Mike?”

“No, that's enough,” Michael squeaks.

“Alright, well, I'll just wrap it up anyway. So I sucked his dick, and then he pulled back at the last minute, said he wasn't ready to come just yet, and then he fucked me up the ass so hard I forgot how to...”

“Stop it!” Michael interrupts, hands coming to grip at the window pane.  
“... breathe. Oh, he liked that, a bit of breath-play. He was a kinky...”

“Lucifer, stop!”

“... bastard, my Azazel. And then I came...”

“Lucifer! Stop this!”

“... all over him, and then...”

“Stop it!”

“... he came, and said...”

“Lucifer!”

“Look, now we're finishing each other's sentences!”

Lucifer looked bright with happiness, and Michael thought he might cry. There were tears in his eyes and a sound just waiting at the back of his throat...

“And then,” Lucifer started, hesitating for a minute as he waited for Michael to intervene. Nothing but a sob followed. “And _then,_ I kissed him.”

Michael is defeated and he slumps down at the wall by the window, coming to rest on the floor. “Could you use that cigarette now?” Lucifer asks. Michael doesn't reply, electing to bury his face in his knees and force back his tears.

“Bible never said it was wrong,” Lucifer reminds Michael.

 

  
Michael waits for Gabriel and Raphael and Lucifer to all fall asleep before him that night. He jerks off then, and he thinks about Lucifer giving him the best damn blow job of his life.

He's quiet, very quiet, and he thinks that his room-mates are asleep, but when he's throwing his tissues into the bin at the corner of the room, he can her Lucifer snicker.

Needless to say, Michael does not get much sleep during his first night at St. Lawrence's. He spends most of his night awake, searching for the Bible for any particular thing that can disprove his homosexual room-mate.

 

When Lucifer awakes at 06:45, Raphael and Michael are already gone, but Gabriel is getting dressed. “Hey, Bro. Mike asked me to give you this.” Gabriel holds out a torn sheet of notebook paper. “Exchanging measurements already?” Gabriel teases, and Lucifer rolls his eyes as he examines the paper. In a messy black scrawl, it reads: _Cor 6:19-20._

It takes a few moments, but recognition sets in. Lucifer finds his yellowing leather-bound bible, and hunts around for a while before he finds exactly what he is looking for.

_Or do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, whom you have from God? You are not your own, for you were bought with a price. So glorify God in your body._

Lucifer smirks and sets his Bible aside. He picks up his copy of _Nineteen Eighty-Five_ , smoothing out the dog-eared page marking his place, before sliding Michael's scrawled notebook leaf in between the pages as a new bookmark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The note that Michael leaves Lucifer is indeed Corinthians 6:19-6:20.


	4. We Will Go Outside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very late update... I finally figured out a good way to end the chapter though, so here it is... hopefully the next chapter won't be too far behind?

The four alarm clocks in Michael's room are all set for 06:00, and Michael wakes from his weak three-hour sleep with a start. He pants slightly as he scrambles to set the loud, irritating buzzing sound off, taking about fifteen seconds. When he looks two beds away, he can see Raphael calmly doing what looks like a duty: rising out of bed, switching his alarm off, and then walking across the room to shut Gabriel's down, also. Michael frowns, running a hand through his dishevelled hair.

“Raphael? Gabriel isn't...”

Raphael rolls his eyes like Michael's an idiot for saying what he was about to, and strides across the room to flick off Lucifer's. “They'll wake soon. I've been doing this for months.”  
Michael nods softly, and looks at the numeric display on Lucifer's clock. Sure enough, 06:01. Then, his eyes drift towards Lucifer (he didn't mean it, honestly), and the boy looks completely different asleep than awake.

Asleep, his hair is soft and blonde and even messier than Michael's must be now, sticking up at all ends. His eyes are shut and his lashes cast shadows over his barely freckled (but all the same freckled) cheeks. Asleep, Michael would never believe that Lucifer was the rebellious lost cause that John Winchester claimed, and yet... Michael thinks of being offered cigarettes and being enlightened by Lucifer's homosexual tales, but it all seems so out of character for the sleeping...

“Michael? We don't have time for you to get lost in thought. We have to all take showers before 07:00, and get dressed,” Raphael reports, and Michael is tugged out of his embarrassing daydreams.

“Yes, Raphael. You can have first shower, I need to...” Michael searches for an excuse, before finishing expertly, “I need to find a fresh uniform.”

Michael could have said that he needed to snort a little cocaine, and Raphael still probably wouldn't have cared. Raphael doesn't hesitate to sweep past Michael into the small bathroom, with just a toilet and tiny shower for use, and yet Raphael seems happy to go. Maybe it was to get away from the chaos of the other three boys. In which case, Michael completely understands.  
Michael had received his timetable for his classes today, and he studies it over again. He already knew every day off by heart, but he checks all the same. His first subject is Bible Study, which Michael feels is an ironic way to begin his schooling life at St. Lawrence's, and yet he appreciates this – he had never taken a Bible Study class at his old school. Perhaps this was the problem: he didn't know the Bible well enough.

(This is a blatant lie. He knows Revelations like the back of his hand.)

Michael hears Raphael start the shower and he returns to his bed, sitting there and looking at Lucifer. He finds himself asking, again, how is that the same boy that wears inappropriately torn red jeans and smokes tobacco?

The tobacco was... it's still etched into Michael's mind, almost as much as Lucifer's recited adventures with men. And Michael can still remember what Lucifer had said, about it not being wrong, and about staying up at ungodly hours to find the perfect article to prove Lucifer wrong.

The article of which is still in the pocket of Michael's flannelette pyjama shirt. (A little more modest than Lucifer's bare chest and boxer shorts, and Gabriel, who apparently wears literally nothing in bed. Michael isn't game enough to check. Apparently, no-one is.)

Raphael emerges from the bathroom a short time later, wearing his school uniform. He doesn't say anything, so Michael takes it upon himself to have what is a very hasty shower. He doesn't want to stay there inside too long, because the water pressure is awful and the temperature seems to go only two ways: searing hot or ice cold.

After Michael changes and takes good care to make sure there is not one noticeable speck of anything on his pressed uniform, he walks out of the bathroom. Gabriel is awake, standing, with a blanket wrapped around him. Michael hopes that the blanket will not drop any time soon.

“Heya, Mike!” Gabriel says with a grin, bundling the beginning and end hems of the blanket into one hand as he waves at Michael. “Sleep well?”

Judging by the dark lines under Michael's eyes, he can only assume Gabriel is being sarcastic and/or teasing him. Michael just mumbles, “it's Michael.”

Gabriel gives Michael a long-suffering look best described as pity. Michael decides then that if he wants Gabriel to do a favour for him, then he has to earn it.

“Never mind. You can call me what you like,” Michael tells Gabriel, certain that he will regret that decision some day.

“Really? How about...” Michael cuts Gabriel off swiftly, because he is already a little regretful.

“Never mind, I need to ask a favour,” Michael intervenes.

Gabriel nods: “Okay, shoot.”

Michael hesitated, before handing his torn notebook paper over to Gabriel. “Can you, uh... give this to Lucifer for me?”

Gabriel frowns, taking the paper into his hands. “Okay, Mike...”

Michael nods. “Michael. No, wait, call me whatever. Raphael and I are going to be leaving, now.”

Gabriel nods back slowly, and starts to open the note. Michael opens his mouth to tell Gabriel not to read it (even though it isn't personal; just the way to find a bible quote that would appear random) but Raphael is already striding out and Michael foolishly grabs his bag and exits.

Lucifer is still sleeping with that boyish air about him, Michael just knows it – looking innocent and cute, curled up in a nest of blankets. And if he isn't that, then he'll most definitely be pretending to sleep, with a smirk in place that Michael would rather pretend doesn't exist.

It's easier, however, for Michael to leave with Raphael for breakfast and try his very best not to think about Lucifer for the time-being.

 

 

 

After breakfast (a lacklustre delicacy of burnt toast with strawberry jam, muesli that is soggy by the time Michael receives his serving, but relatively nice orange juice) – which neither Lucifer nor Gabriel attends, which befuddles and perhaps worries Michael further – Michael is lead to his first class alongside Dean Winchester.

“Now, remember, this is probably the most serious class you'll ever take,” Dean informs Michael as he drags off the tie from from around his neck. “And just 'cause we have Shurley, doesn't mean we can totally fuck up. He's a cruel, capricious god, I swear – Gabe's words, not mine... dude, seriously, he tells my Dad everything.”

Michael nods. He won't […] up in Bible Study, because he is already taking it as seriously as possible. He glances at Dean only when the tie is removed uncouthly from his neck and shoved into his pocket – simply only because Michael wonders why Dean bothers. The tie isn't particularly uncomfortable.

Dean and Michael line up outside of the classroom door with several other students, a few that Michael recognises (Ezekiel and Garth) but the rest are practically mysteries to Michael. He doesn't mind: the less people he gets caught up with, the less likely he is to fall into sin. It does not matter to him that everyone here is born and raised Christian: there is always a chance.  
After all, if he could have been broken so easily in the past, couldn't everyone else have been, too?

It is another ten minutes, during which time Dean leaves to chat to Garth – and Michael and Ezekiel try for small talk, they really do try – before Chuck Shurley finally arrives, a mug in hand with coffee slushing about as he hurries to his class, books and more books tucked under his arm. “Sorry that I'm late, kids! Had a meeting with John Winchester, and the curriculum has been slightly altered...”

This causes groans from the entire class. “C'mon, seriously!” Dean Winchester shouts out. “Revelations was the cool stuff!”

“Yes, Dean, I know,” Chuck Shurley says as he tries to control the mess in his hands long enough to unlock the door. “You've made your opinions on the apocalypse quite clear to all of us! But, uh... y'know, Corinthians isn't half bad, you see, it was mainly written by Paul, who was quite a regular...”

Dean groans and marches up the stairs, snatching the key right out of Chuck Shurley's hand, jamming it in the lock and twisting it, and finally the door is opened and students push pass the flustered teacher in a race to get inside. Michael and Ezekiel are equally un-bothered as they drag themselves behind their classmates. It doesn't occur to Michael why it feels so strange that they are studying Corinthians, but it seems odd... familiar... somehow...

He passes it off. He has read Corinthians before, which might explain a bit.

“Dean! Your father will hear about this!”

Michael notices the flicker of fear in Dean's eyes that is hastily replaces with carelessness. “Sure he will!” Dean shouts back, but other than that he shuts himself up, and all of the students fall into...

No, they do not sit behind desks on chairs like Michael had assumed. He sees nine other young men, boys, lined up like soldiers across the room. Michael gulps, hesitates, but obediently does what he assumes is right, waddling over towards the queue.

“Uh, uh, not so fast, Milton!” Shurley intervenes, and Michael is correct in noticing the stammer in his tone. Michael stops in his tracks and turns to face the teacher. Michael can't yet figure why a man in un-ironed clothes who evidently has not shaved for a while is so frightening. It then occurs to him it is the second time he has felt this way at St. Lawrence's.

The first was John Winchester.

“Have you read Corinthians, Milton?”

Michael nods, feeling more stunned than ever. Yes, he has, he...

“Well, I'm sure you heard about the incident with the pornography found in Mr. Tran's possession, Milton?”

All Michael can do is nod again, feeling in a gaze.

“And what is your opinion, Milton?”

“I... I thought it was all rumours, Sir,” Michael admits.

“In fact, no. Mr. Tran had pornography kept hidden in his room, something which is contraband by the school – we do not condone that sort of material.”

Dean lets out a loud and, for the main part unattractive, laugh. “C'mon, Kev? Porn? Is anyone else thinking that this sounds a little off?”

“Mr Winchester, did I ask for your opinion?” Chuck Shurley asks sharply.

The smirk drops right off Dean's face. “No, Sir, I don't think you did,” Dean answers.

“So why do you insist on giving it?”

Dean doesn't answer, just stares ahead numbly.

“Headmaster Winchester has insisted on a curriculum change in each Biblical classroom across the school. All of you will be reading what he deems necessary to end the behaviour.”

Michael can't help but think that Chuck Shurley sounds too shaky to be truly threatening, and yet... well, Michael is turned just as numb as the rest of the classroom, who are staring ahead at absolutely nothing in the same way that Dean does.

Chuck Shurley hands out to each student a copy of the King James Bible, and Michael feels foolish but still proud for bringing his own edition. He just tries to replicate the students around him and seem... well, lifeless.

“1 Corinthians, Chapter 6,” Chuck Shurley informs the boys. They all open and find their page. Michael is the first.

“Alright, a verse, from each of you, going across. Begin from the start, Mr Winchester.”

“Dare any of you, having a matter against one another, go to law...” Dean squints, like he is trying to make sense out of a Biblical passage, which Michael personally knows is impossible at times. Then, he continues: “Go to law before the unjust, and not before the saints?”

“Repeat, Winchester. I want to hear it properly.”

Dean repeats: flawlessly.

It continues, and Michael listens attentively. Strangely, so do all of the other students. Almost as if, if they don't listen, they'll be in trouble, which is...

“Do ye not know that the saints shall judge the world? And if the world shall be judged by you, are ye unworthy to judge the smallest matters?” the boy next to Dean recites.

Ezekiel is next in the line: “Know ye not that we shall judge angels? how much more things that pertain to this life?”

It continues onwards, line after line after line...

Verse 9. Michael hears this and perks up slightly from his doze. He has heard Corinthians far too many times in his life. “Know ye not that the unrighteous shall not inherit the kingdom of God? Be not deceived: neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor effeminate, nor abusers of themselves with mankind.”

And then, Michael reads the tenth verse, loud and clear, but he is sure that the entire classroom can sense his nerves. “Nor thieves, nor covetous, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor extortioners, shall inherit the Kingdom of God.”

And then, it all clicks into place for Michael as he hears these words from the student next to him:

“What? Know ye not that your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost which is in you, which ye have of God, and ye are not your own?”

The book in Michael's hands is shut with a slam dramatically, and Michael is barely breathing as he mutters: “For ye are bought with a price: therefore glorify God in your body, and in your spirit, which are God's.”

And it occurs to him then that the scrawled passage he gave to Lucifer has somehow come back to haunt him.

Michael drops the Bible to the floor, all eyes of the room snap to stare at Michael – including that of Shurley's. “I... uh... sorry!” Michael stammers, crouching to pick up the book. Frowns of disproval and snickers of amusement are upon him, he just knows it.

 

 

Michael's second class is Mathematics, which is humiliating. He forgets his book at his dorm room, and is only allowed to run back across the fields to collect it because its his first day.  
That isn't even the humiliating part.

The humiliating part is when he sees Lucifer sprawled out across the familiar willow tree in the middle of the oval and Michael's heart somersaults in his chest.

Lucifer resting, accompanied only by tight-fitting jeans and crumpled uniform and headphones blasting something alternative with a heavy bassline, is almost as peaceful as Lucifer sleeping. Michael pauses long enough just to stare at the boy, take in the way that the seasonal sunlight catches his blonde hair and sets it alight. And, in sunlight, his soft freckles are even more visible.  
Michael also pauses long enough to notice that the hands resting on Lucifer's chest have nicotine staining the fingernails, and that he is in fact tragically out of school uniform.

Michael does his absolute best to rush across the field and away from the boy, which lasts a rather short amount of time, because Lucifer seems to be very diligent, even with his pale blue eyes shut and his headphones turned up to full volume.

“Mike!” Lucifer shouts out, relaxed mouth turning up into a grin that Michael wishes looked more forced than it actually did. His best guess is that Lucifer enjoys making his life exceedingly difficult.

Michael grimaces, spins around, and plasters on a very fake smile. “Don't you have class, Lucifer?” he asks.

Lucifer screws up his nose. “Would you want English with Shurley?”

Michael blinks in astonishment. “He teaches English, too?” Chuck Shurley is barely articulate unless he has the threat of John Winchester on his side.

“You bet he does,” Lucifer murmurs, patting the grass beside him. “Here, sit. You got Maths, huh?”

Michael wonders how Lucifer knows – but only fleetingly, because it doesn't even surprise him. Michael probably muttered his timetable through his (limited) sleep the previous night.  
Michael shakes his head. “No. Well, yes, I have Mathematics, but I really can't sit, I have to get back to class.”

Lucifer scoffs. “Seriously? C'mon, Mike. Just sit for a few minutes. We'll listen to cool music... braid each other's hair...” Lucifer's grin becomes something indecently wicked. “We'll talk about boys...”

Michael very nearly growls before turning around and marching to the dorm room. He grabs his notebook and kicks a stack of Lucifer's precious vintage books over.

He's so angry that he forgets he has to re-encounter Lucifer on the return back.

Lucifer's music is still loud when Michael walks past him, but the track is something softer, though Michael can still make out the lyrics.

_We will go outside, when the lights come on inside..._

Michael is so caught up in trying to make out the lyrics that he barely notices when he has a piece of paper waved freely through the air at him.

Michael glares harshly at Lucifer, snatching the torn notebook page out of his hand and marching straight back off to class.

It's one thing for Lucifer to be gay, but so proudly... it just causes far too much emotional distress. Michael's values are far too high to be even slightly amiable to a boy like that. (Let alone a boy that goes out of his way to confuse Michael, or so it seems, with today's clean white jeans, which are so tight it must prohibit any proper leg movement – and comments that are bordering on the flirtatious.)

Michael shoves the note from Lucifer in between the pages of his Maths workbook and only dares to read it when he is in Maths, head down and trying to do his work – or, more like, trying to ignore Dean Winchester's raucous comments from the back of the classroom and putting off reading Lucifer's note for as long as possible.

To his credit, he lasts twenty minutes before temptation (what a sin) gets the better of him.

 _So, whatever you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do all in the glory of God._ Corinthians 10:31  
 _But who really cares?_ Lucifer 1:1  
 _The guy that wrote Corinthians was a bastard anyway._ Lucifer 1:2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Corinthians verses are, of course, real.  
> The Lucifer ones are unfortunately not. The reason that Lucifer claims St. Paul, undisputed author of the Corinthians verses, is a 'bastard' is because St. Paul is opposed to homosexuality.


	5. Of Faith, Of Prayer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel really awful for how I've portrayed John in this chapter, because I actually adore canon!John.  
> But someone had to play the dick for this chapter and it ended up being him.
> 
> A real massive help from tumblr user [ summercrowley ](http://summercrowley.tumblr.com) for beta'ing this chapter!

After Mathematics, Recess follows. There is a cafeteria that is even smaller than their dining hall, and to Lucifer's credit, it's probably the first thing he's shown up to all day, Michael realises.

They are given a choice between pork and some suspiciously grey breed of fish that Michael would rather pretend does not exist, and no prizes for guessing what he selects.

With his unappealing meal, he shuffles down into a table where Gabriel is sitting with a younger boy. The boy has messy dark hair and bright blue eyes, and a tie that seems to have inadvertently been put on backwards.

"I'm just sayin', Cassie. Wouldn't be a shame if you got some sort of message out to the board about a girl-guy dance. Seriously, we got St. Mary's just up the road. It's about time we took advantage of that and seized the day and all that..."

Two words of Gabriel's chattering are what really catches Michael's attention. "St. Mary's?" he echoes.

"Yeah," Gabriel replies with an absent shrug. "The all-girls school."

Michael knows this, because he can remember, somewhere between dating Naomi and being shipped of to St. Lawrence's, his sister receiving a letter in the mail about St. Mary's because their parents decided that it was best for both of them if they received real Christian educations.

Michael doesn't get to ask about this dance or anything, about if he'll get to see his little sister again, because Gabriel interrupts his thoughts.

"This is Castiel, my kid brother, also Luci's kid brother by default," Gabriel says as he swings an arm around the younger boy's shoulders. Castiel squirms, uncomfortable. "Gabriel, I have told you, there's no need to be so affectionate..."

"Sure there is!" Gabriel pipes up, pinching Castiel's cheeks and letting his arm fall. "You're my li'l baby brother and I miss you!" he gushes.  
"You see me all the time," Castiel grumbles, but no-one really notices because Dean Winchester has swooped in.

"Novak!" Dean say. He awkwardly reaches out like he might ruffle Cas' hair or clap him on the shoulder, but seems to think better of it and lets his hand hover awkwardly for a couple of seconds before he punches him on the arm lightly. This confuses Michael but he tries his best to ignore it. "Whatcha up to?" he asks.

Castiel responds with a clueless shrug, looking up at Dean with an expression that is so difficult to decode that Michael gives up. "Gabriel just wanted to pester me, as per usual," he informs Dean.

"Is that so?" Dean asked, cocking an eyebrow at Gabriel. It's almost as if Dean is protective over Castiel, but Michael can't process that. There seems to be no link at all between the two boys that Michael can detect.

"No, hang on, Dean! Before you get all feisty, listen to this," Gabriel says quickly, holding up a hand to halt Dean from talking. "I was sayin' that Cassie, being present of the board and all that, should suggest to Papa Winchester that we have a school dance. Or, y'know, schools dance: plural. With the ladies from St. Mary's," Gabriel says, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. Michael feels vaguely sickened that his sister is one of those girls.

Dean considers this for a moment and then a grin seeps across his face. "Not a bad idea, Gabriel," he agrees, nodding slowly. Then, he hits Castiel on the arm, maybe a little harder than necessary. "You get to that, Cas. I reckon its an awesome idea."

"Well, you would," Castiel mumbled. Dean doesn't seem to hear - or at least, he pretends not to.

"Sammy!" Dean shouts to a boy who is sitting with a bunch of other students that Michael doesn't recognise: they are in a lower grade to him.

A boy who looks a lot younger than he actually is snaps his head up, and then his lips transform into a beam as he waddles hurriedly over towards Dean, looking like the living embodiment of sunshine. He has to be only one grade below Michael, and he's clearly a lot taller, and yet he acts like an adorable kid who's never seen pain before. "Hi!" he says.

"Heya, Sammy," Dean grins at him. "Sam, that's the new kid. Michael."

"Hi," Sam says to Michael with an almost blush - or maybe his cheeks are just naturally rosy.

"Hello," Michael answers dutifully, but Sam doesn't seem to want to give him the time of day. He pokes his head around his brother's figure and waves to Gabriel. "Hi, Gabe," he says, and it is close to sounding shy.  
"Hey, kiddo!" Gabriel enthuses. Sam looks delighted.

"I finished that essay for you," Sam says, looking very proud. Michael frowns: that seems a little off.

"You're the best," Gabriel says, winking at Sam. This time, Michael knows that little Sam is blushing.

Dean scowls. "When are you gonna stop using my brother as your slave?" he asks Gabriel.

"When you stop using mine as yours," Gabriel answers sweetly. Castiel nods his own agreement.

"Traitor," Dean mutters to Castiel, who just hums and smiles down at his food.

That is when Lucifer finally approaches the lunch table, which is beginning to end up as a crowded mess of students of differing ages. "Castiel! How's the wife and kids?" Lucifer asks as he lazily slings an arm around Castiel's shoulder.

Castiel sighs, seeming to shrink underneath Lucifer's arms. "You know I don't understand why you insist on saying things like that. It doesn't make sense and it's not funny."

Lucifer just grins and offers Castiel a lazy shrug. "Why, little brother. It's fun!" Lucifer swivels around and winks at Michael. "Did you like the note?" he asks.

Michael's feels his face heat up at that wink. It's not appropriate, and Michael doesn't like it, but he knows that everyone around them would just assume its something friendly, something that might be typical for someone like Lucifer. "There wasn't all that much to like about it," Michael informs Lucifer, "and it was far from enlightening."

Lucifer winces. "Ooh! That's a tad harsh. I put a lot of effort into that!"

Michael ignores Lucifer and resumes picking at his food. He can feel Lucifer's eyes watching him for a couple of minutes longer as if there s something more to be expected from Michael, and perhaps there is, but Michael is not going to give it to Lucifer. Not now. Not ever.

\-----

The idea of having a Science class at such a religious school will never cease to surprise Michael, judging by the look of wonder on his face as he sidles into the lab with Raphael and Dean leading him there.  
Wonder is instantly replaces with shock when he sees the topic on the board: How was the Earth created?

That is a sinner's topic to discuss in a Science classroom, Michael knows that much. In fact, its enough for Michael to abandon the classroom at once. He pulls his bag tighter around his shoulders and turns around, wanting to leave. Is this a trap? Is God trying to test him once again?  
"Michael Milton, where do you think that you're going?"

It's that rough tone that Michael first heard upon entering this school, and his legs suddenly feel about as useful as gelatine. It's John Winchester's voice, and he freezes on the spot. It takes him a couple of seconds to register that the room is silent, as if his classmates want an explanation from him. But they don't: they simply can't talk while John Winchester waits for his.

Feeling simultaneously numb and ill, Michael turns around. "I... Sir, I apologise, but this topic is... its not..."

"Sit down!" John Winchester snaps, pointing to a vacant seat next to...  
Lucifer.

Michael didn't even know that the rebelling blonde shared any classes, but this of all subjects? It is too ironic to even happen. Michael just swallows thickly and nods, shuffling towards the empty chair next to Lucifer, with John Winchester's eyes focused on him, a snarl firmly on the man's face. Michael's face is bright red, but strangely enough, no student looks at him. They all stare at their hands, as though this is what is required of them. Michael decides that it is. John Winchester is teaching dolls rather than students at times like these.

"Now," John Winchester starts. "Does anyone else share Milton's objections to this topic?"

Silence ensues. John Winchester takes this as a no and turns around, scrawling the word detentions in messy script on the corner of the blackboard in chalk that makes a horrific scraping sound. Of course, not half as much as when he sees that the word written underneath reads, plain and simple, M. Milton. He winces.

He's always had very good behaviour. He has never recieved a detention in his life, so this truly stuns him. But he doesn't say anything, just stares at his hands and wills the bright red hue on his cheeks to go away.

"And are you all ready to begin this class?" asks the Headmaster.

SIlence, again. This time, John Winchester decides that it is a yes.

In his hand, John Winchester holds a long, wooden ruler. He hits the chalkboard with it, drawing attention to the question on the chalkboard.

"You all know that this is a school of God," John Winchester says, "and a school of Jesus Christ. A school of faith, a school of prayer. And what do we believe in at St. Lawrence's?"

No one answers, until slowly, Dean Winchester stands up.

"In God, Sir."

He doesn't sit back down. John Winchester tilts his head in a way that is urging his son to continue.

"That God is all," Dean finishes, and sits back down.

"That God is all that is good," John corrects. "God gave us every thing that this school prides itself on. God gave us the World."

Michael shifts uncomfortably in his chair and he isn't sure why, but there is something about the way that John Winchester delivers his speeches that makes everyone in the room feel very on edge.

"God created the World. Is there anyone here that believes in the Big Bang?"

No one dares to move, but John must have some special talent, because:

"Raphael Shurley."

No eyes flee to Raphael, and Michael has to remind himself that all he can do is stare at his hands for the timebeing.

"Sir, the evidence is undisputable," Raphael says, daring to look up and meet John Winchester's eyes.

"And did you think," John Winchester says slowly. "That perhaps God gave us the Big Bang?"

Raphael says nothing, and he looks back down at his hands absently.  
Michael isn't certain about what Raphael has done wrong, if John Winchester claims that his beliefs could indeed be religous, but soon there is another name scribbled underneath Michael's: R. Shurley.

That is when Michael feels Lucifer shift next to him, raising his hand in the air. "Sir, if I may interrupt?" Lucifer asks, voice sounding far too cool and unaffected by John Winchester's presence.

"What is it, Novak?" the principal snaps, as if he is used to Lucifer's interruptions.

"Why would God create this Earth, give us all of this, and then leave without proving himself? There is no one shred of proof that tells us this was all God's doing," Lucifer says.

A round of gasps sound around the classrooms.

"Quiet," John instantly barks out to hush those who are actually stunned by Lucifer's question. Funnily enough, Michael is not one of them. He has no doubts that if anyone was to ask such dumb questions, it would be Lucifer.

"Novak, are you telling me that you do not believe in God?" John Winchester asks. His tone is so unpleasant it makes Michael feel sick.  
(Almost as sick as the thought that Lucifer has lost his faith - if he had any to begin with.)

"No, Sir," Lucifer says, smoothly, and stands up. Everyone else thinks that he is totally relaxed, because only Michael can sense that his legs are quivering, just slightly.

"I believe in God. I've devoted time and effort to God. I believe that God exists, and that God is watching over us all. But I do not believe that God is the sole reason that I exist, that the Earth exists."

And although Michael cannot hear the gasps this time, he knows that everyone is just as surprised as they were before.

"Novak. To the front of the classroom, at this very moment."

Michael knows that Lucifer hesitates. He can hear the boy's breathing quicken. All Michael wants to do is grab Lucifer by the wrist, tug him down into his seat, and then stand up to defend him. Michael knows that Lucifer is now in danger of John Winchester for expressing opinions like this. Michael has never seen John Winchester come to blows with a student like this, but it is only natural that Michael fears the worst. Michael shouldn't want to defend Lucifer - his opinions are sinful. Lucifer is sinful. Every word that Lucifer says manages to make MIchael feel sick to his stomach. But that doesn't mean Michael doesn't want to defend Lucifer, the same way he wanted to defend Naomi when his father started shouting about how Michael had been in love with an abomination.

Lucifer's hesitation is brief, though, because Lucifer is brave. Michael can tell, because he waould never have done what Lucifer does next. He stands, takes a step back, pushes his chair in and then, good Lord, he walks sturdily to the front of the classroom, next to John Winchester.

"Take this young sinner as an example. Lucifer Novak. Well, the first name fits. Remind me of why your parents submitted you to this school."

"'M homosexual, Sir," Lucifer says, softly. With that tone of voice, it is easy for Michael to imagine a blush on those freckled cheeks.

 

"No," John Winchester disagrees. "You are not. You engaged in homosexual activity. You engaged in one of the most disturbing, poisonous activities of all time. But you are not homosexual. Do you understand?" John Winchester asks.

"Yes, Sir." It sounds as though Lucifer is struggling to say this.

"When God created you, did he create you to engage in homosexual activity?" asks the Headmaster.

And Michael can sense that Lucifer wants to answer yes, just to be a smart-ass, and he isn't even looking at Lucifer. He, like everyone else, is staring down at the hands as if they don't want to be a part of this anymore.

"The position, Novak."

Silence.

"Do I need to repeat myself, Novak?"

Silence again, which is apparently a no.

Then there is the sound of something hitting something. It's loud, it's blunt, and it's followed by what might be a stifled sob. It takes Michael a while, but he soon registers what it is.

It's the sound of wood hitting skin.

Then there's the sound of shaky breathing as Lucifer takes his seat next to Michael, and there's blood running too cold through Michael's veins again.

But no-one sees what happens. They were all too busy obediently staring at their hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Corporal punishment ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Corporal_punishment) is legal throughout public schools all throughout the United States of America, Kansas included. Although this is a private establishment, this chapter has been written under the daring assumption that private schools can do what they like with their students via punishment as long as it isn't illegal.


	6. Men of Letters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? The first update since January? (Oops.)

Michael has always been a well-behaved child. He's never said anything amiss or participated in anything particularly sinful, as long as you look beyond his short-lived relationship with Naomi. He has never had to be punished before, apart from a soft whack on the back of his knuckles with a wooden spoon whenever he tried to sneak a bit of the icing out of the bowl while his mother baked a cake. In fact, he and Anna always did their very best to keep out of arguments with one another, too, if only because their father was a rather frightening man.

He never laid a single hand on them, but it was just that ever-present threat that he so easily could. At Michael's current age, he was nearing the same height as his father, and his build was gradually beginning to even out, and yet he always felt terrified if his father was in the same room as them. Several times, Anna had told Michael that she thought their father was ‘creepy’.

Michael always thought it was a little redundant, to fear unexercised power. It is only now that he realises if Lucifer had feared John Winchester's power, he might not have bright red welts on the back of his hands.

"Sit still," Michael scolds Lucifer as the boy squirms uncomfortably. Michael can't quite remember how they ended up beneath Lucifer's favourite tree, the ancient and outstretched willow, but here they are. It's four p.m., and class has long since broken out. All of the other boys are playing football or studying. Michael just hasn't realised yet that joining in with one of these activities is actually the norm and that socialising wouldn't hurt.

"You deserve it," Michael tells Lucifer as he takes both of Lucifer's hands in his, studying the bright scarlet markings. "You shouldn't anger a man in authority," he adds. "It was foolish of you."

Lucifer rolls his eyes. "Yeah, well, what can I say? John Winchester's a di-"

"Lucifer," Michael chastises, dropping Lucifer's hands. "John Winchester is _right_. Thinking that you're a homosexual is just - you're living in a fantasy world. You can't like men. It's wrong. And you certainly cannot question the word of God."

"So you're one of _those_ Catholics," Lucifer says, dragging out the italicised word.

"What do you mean?" Michael asks, frowning just a little, like he's insulted.

"The kind of Catholic who takes everything in the bible super-literally. You're as bad as John Winchester, y'know," Lucifer informs him.

"There's nothing bad about our Headmaster," Michael answers, looking personally offended - for John Winchester's sake. "He seems like a very good man. And he's only doing what's best for you, Lucifer."

"Hitting me with a freaking ruler is what's _best_ for me?" Lucifer asks. Michael stares at him, like that might be enough to make his point.

"It only hit your hands," Michael reminds Lucifer. "Don't be so dramatic."

"Hands are very important! I need them for lots of things." Lucifer looks like he might start giving examples, and Michael knows one inappropriate case in point that will certainly be among the list, so he intervenes.

"The point is that it could have been worse," Michael fills in quietly. "So don't do it again."

Lucifer rolls his eyes, falling back down onto his back. The grass beneath him is burnt light brown and freshly mowed and looks too itchy to be comfortable, but Lucifer seems content. "What do you care, anyway?" he asks, his eyes open so that he can look at the sky, placing a hand over his eyes to shield them from the bright sun.

"I don't care," Michael answers, folding his arms over his chest defiantly. "I simply don't want you getting hurt worse next time."

"Because you care!" Lucifer declares, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

Michael huffs and focuses on the football game so that he doesn't find himself staring at Lucifer's jeans. Or soft blonde hair. Or both.

"Why d'you think he really did it?" Lucifer asks after a long moment, tilting his head to look at Michael, who is still sitting up straight and refusing to give into the temptation of lying down on the uncomfortable grass next to Lucifer.

"You know why," Michael replies, still intently watching the football game. Dean has gotten into an argument with Gabriel about something that Michael wasn't watching intently enough to know about.

"No, really. I get it. He's a homophobic jerk. That bit was clear to me."

Michael scowls. "You know that it isn’t the whole story. But enlighten me, what is it that you don't understand, Lucifer?"

"Why it affects him."

Michael is quiet for the longest time. "It's exactly how I said. He wants what's best for you. If he doesn't teach you how wrong your behaviour is, then it's quite simple. You'll end up in Hell."

"Well, that's obvious bullshit."

"Lucifer!" Michael reproaches the swearing.

"Where does it say _anywhere_ in the Bible that I'll go to Hell for sucking a dick?" Lucifer asks Michael. If Michael hadn't been watching the way that Dean calls out to Sam and Gabriel calls out to Castiel for help regarding the rules of a simple game, he would have seen the smirk on Lucifer's lips. Fortunately, Lucifer's tone is heavy with smugness, and Michael can't miss it.

"It doesn't," Michael admits quietly. "But that doesn't make it right, Lucifer. God will punish you."

"Did God deliver that memo to you himself?" asks Lucifer. "Or is this just what you've been told, second-hand? Or, considering the way shit gets past down, twenty-ninth hand?"

Michael doesn't know what he's meant to _say_ to that. Lucifer is becoming increasingly difficult to deal with. All he says, is: "You really need to begin working on your language."

Lucifer raises his eyebrows. "My language?"

"You swear a lot," Michael shrugs. He's almost amused by the way that Sam has unexpectedly taken Gabriel's side and Dean, Castiel's. Which just results in each older boy calling their younger brother a traitor.

"Do I?" Lucifer asks. Like he hasn't noticed.

Michael doesn't reply. The football game lost interest somewhere between Gabriel accusing Castiel of bringing shame to the Novak family name. Michael thinks that Lucifer might have beaten Castiel to it.  


After Dinner, unlike the previous night, all of the boys have decided that hanging out in the common room is a better idea than heading straight to their bedrooms. Michael considers just going upstairs to sleep, because today has really taken a toll on him. But when he sees that Raphael is the only one to retreat to their room, and everyone else makes a point of rolling their eyes, he decides that for the sake of his limited social life, he should lurk behind.

Unexpectedly, the group does not settle off into separate social groups. The students all fall down onto the couches and the unlucky few park themselves onto the ground. Michael secures himself a place on the dark red velveteen sofa, and he’s rather comfortable until three other boys decide that four teenagers can actually fit on a two-person couch. He’s squished amongst the arm of the chair. Across from him, Lucifer lazes out on a couch all to himself, undisturbed. Michael doesn’t know whether to feel annoyed or confused.

“Alright, men!” It’s Dean Winchester, standing up and stepping into the centre of the room and demanding the attention of the other men.

“I’m not a man,” Lucifer whines, folding his arms underneath his head, kicking his legs up. “I’m a boy.”

“Then you’ve already been excluded,” Dean says, with a scowl directed at Lucifer. Michael gets the feeling that Dean doesn’t really like Lucifer.

“Excluded from what?” Gabriel perks up then, although Michael could swear he’d heard the boy (who was awkwardly squashed beside him) groan the moment Dean demanded everyone’s attention.

“This.” Dean holds a leather binder up, which a few people stare at impressively. Some seem to think that Dean is being theatrical – this includes Lucifer, who just yawns.

“Novak, if you can’t take this seriously, you can leave,” Dean orders.

Lucifer sighs. “Okay, super serious. Raphael-level of seriousness, yeah? Hell, _Michael_ -level of seriousness,” he adds, with a wink directed at one particular classmate who is most definitely blushing, although he’d never admit to it.

“Anyway,” Dean says, over the choir of snickers. “This folder I hold contains powerful god-damn history. The original men of St. Lawrence’s: the original Men of Letters.”

Things have fallen quiet, now. Dean opens the binder and produces an old, tattered photograph. The boys all stare at it in wonder.

Castiel Novak speaks up then, standing from his chair and crossing the room, standing next to Dean. (Michael notices Dean puff his chest out a little more.)

“These are the men who conquered the school with God-fearing tactics all in the name of our almighty Lord,” Castiel says. This especially has Michael’s attention.

“Who do you guys think you are, the freaking Vigils?” Lucifer pipes up. When everyone else looks perplexed, Lucifer just shakes his head with disappointment.

“Our Headmaster has spoken to Dean about regenerating the Men of Letters,” Castiel interjects. “The original Men of Letters were a group of twelve young legendary men that many of you will have heard about. Descendants of these Men are granted immediate access into the group – you have already deemed yourselves worthy b…” Dean elbows Castiel in the ribcage. Castiel clears his throat and corrects whatever mistake he was about to make: “…worthy men.”

Michael is still struggling to process what is happening. He knows that this is not normal of a school, not even a strict private school. The Men of Letters sounds like such a bizarre concept for a group of high school boys.

Dean hands Castiel a sheet from the binder, and Castiel reads directly from it, furrowing his brows. “By accepting this responsibility, you are accepting the duties of a true Men of Letter: to be vigilant and to not only impose these rules upon fellow students, but to be a role model and set an example.

“In the Honour of our Headmaster John Winchester, the Men of Letters wish to recruit Dean and Samuel Winchester into the club.”

Michael can hear a quiet “it’s Sam” mumbled from somewhere behind him – but neither Castiel nor Dean, who still hold the attention of the room, notice.

“Dean, do you accept?” Castiel asks.

Dean looks uncomfortable, and like Michael, it appears as though he doesn’t know what exactly is going on as he croaks out the words: “I accept.”

“Samuel?” Castiel asks.

Sam hesitates. “Isn’t this kinda… cult-ish?”

Castiel sighs softly. “Sam, this group has purely Catholic intentions. We only wish to activate this group to ensure that all rules enforced by John Winchester and God himself are being followed by all the students of St. Lawrence’s.”

Sam still looks reluctant. “Cas, dude, this is kinda…”

“Sam, just accept it,” Dean hisses at his brother.

Sam looks between Dean and Castiel a couple of times before he nods gingerly. “Okay. I suppose it can’t do any harm.”

“In the honour of the late Metatron Novak, the Men of Letters wish to recruit Castiel Novak, Gabriel Novak, and…” Dean scowls. “Lucifer Novak.” He glances to the boy next to him. “Castiel, you accept?”

Castiel nods. “Of course.”

“Gabriel?” Dean inquires.

“Sure, why the hell not?”

“A simple ‘yes’ would have sufficed just fine, Brother,” Castiel tells Gabriel smoothly. Gabriel doesn’t seem perturbed.

“Lucifer.”

Lucifer seems to be deliberating in for a longer moment. Dean repeats: “Lucifer.”

“I’m gonna pass.”

Dean freezes. “Lucifer, just accept it.”

“What, so your group doesn’t look bad at the start?”

Dean looks like he might do something stupid, like hit Lucifer, but Castiel places a hand on Dean’s shoulder to calm him, and proceeds to intervenes swiftly.

“In the honour of Charles Shurley, the Men of Letters wish to recruit Raphael Shurley.”

“Raph’s not here,” Lucifer informs Castiel promptly.

Dean’s stopped freezing and now looks about ready to burn. “Lucifer, would you like to leave?”

“Nope. Too cozy,” Lucifer answers, stretching his legs out.

The situation carries out as started, once Castiel has manage to deter Dean’s anger towards Lucifer and his defiance. The recruitments are finished, and it’s hard to tell who looks more uncomfortable: Dean and Castiel, delivering news that they have no knowledge of, or the second generation Men of Letters (to be known as the Elitists, as Dean will inform them later), or those who have been completely disregarded.

The only person who is nonchalant about this situation is Lucifer, and Michael wonders how he manages.  


LINE

When Castiel finally abandons the meeting, he expects a weight to be lifted from his shoulders, but it only bears down on him more. Dean offers to walk Castiel to his room, but Castiel just shakes his head, numbly lolling to the room he shares with three other students – one of which he already knows will be asking all the questions in the world.

Questions which Castiel could not answer if he wanted to.

“Cas!” one of the Winchester boys calls out, and Castiel’s heart feels like lead as he stops outside their room.

“Hello, Sam.”

“What was that about?” Sam asks, and his voice lacks what it usually does: the excitement of a puppy. Most of the time, it’s hard to remember that Sam is sixteen – seventeen in a few months, really. Right now, with the frown on his face and the discomfort in his eyes, Castiel can already feel this taking a toll on him.

“The Men of Letters?” Castiel asks, although he doesn’t need to. Sam knows this, but nods all the same. “It’s simply to enforce rules, Sam.”

“Okay, but… _how_?” Sam enquires. Castiel doesn’t know exactly, but the Headmaster brought forth a few very colourful ideas that make Castiel squirm. “This is Dad’s idea, right?”

Castiel can’t do much else but nod. “I don’t really like the idea of it, Cas.”

Castiel knows the rules. John told him quite clearly. If anyone doubts the work of the Men, Castiel must punish them aptly. But Castiel is, as described by Dean on numerous occasions, a kitten, and although Castiel doesn’t agree with Dean’s wording, he’s the first to agree that he isn’t a fighter. Not only that, Sam is both John Winchester’s son and a founding member of the Men of Letters 2.0. The name Elitists has been suggested by John, but Castiel doesn’t like that. He knows what the word means. But he doesn’t understand what makes any of the Men of Letters elite.

Castiel doesn’t really like the idea of any of it either, but he can’t tell Sam that. “I… ask your brother,” he finally makes out.

 “No. I asked Dean before, I ran into him. He just told me that it’s nothing to worry about but you’re all worrying me, Cas.”

Sam is brutally honest and has puppy dog eyes that could con themselves out of a murder charge, and Castiel is far from immune. Castiel just reaches out, places what he hopes is a comforting hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Sam, Dean is right. You don’t need to worry about a thing. God will guide us through this.”

The subtle frown at Sam’s brow deepens. “You know that sounds rehearsed,” he tells Castiel. “’Cause it sounds like the same thing Dad tells me whenever I ask questions.”

And it probably does, because it’s a direct quote from the headmaster himself, but Castiel has no time to think of anything to say because Sam shrugs Castiel’s arm off him and pushes open the door. Castiel follows through, but Sam acts like the other boy doesn’t exist, and Castiel wonders why he allowed John Winchester to drag him into this mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'The Vigils' refers to an elite and privelleged group of students in Robert Cormier's novel, The Chocolate War.


	7. Burnton Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I get really frustrated with these updates taking an entire month, but I've had half-yearly exams... still, better than nothing?

 

Michael somehow manages to adjust to St. Lawrence's. It's strange and uncomfortable, but he adapts to Gabriel's ceaseless hugging, to Lucifer's tight jeans, to Bible Studies class, to the disappointment the school's cooking constantly brings. In fact, this gives Michael routine. At home, he never knew what to expect - either Anna was being a brat or she wasn't, there was no in between and there was no regularity, nor rationality.  Either his mother "wasn't in the mood", or she was getting involved in Parent and Caregiver meetings at their high school. Either his father was ranting about God's will and how his house must be clean of sin, or he was cussing a storm and drinking up a hurricane. At least at St. Lawrence's, there is consistency and there is routine. Michael can always count on Gabriel to swing his arm around Michael and provide him with a tight squeeze, and although Michael is taller than Gabriel and much more mature... it feels protective. Michael can also count of Lucifer's jeans to be tight, and for him to be yelled at for them in Bible Studies, and then once more at Dinner Hall.

And if Michael expects things to change because of the introduction of the Men of Letters club, there is not. Castiel, Dean, and the various members inherited into the exclusive club are silent, even when asked. It's like the question goes right through them. Michael doesn't ask, and perhaps he never will, because he is yet to see it affect him.

Over his first five days at St. Lawrence's, Michael manages to get used to it: early mornings, classes, dinner. The fact that is the weekend entirely omits him, until he realises that he has slept in, only stirring into consciousness at nine-thirty when he feels a strange, heavy, bone-crushing weight forced onto his legs.

"Gabriel," he groans. "Get off me." Of course the middle Novak child is Michael's first suspect. Gabriel is, at times, an added limb to Michael's body, but Michael doesn't kid himself - he's well aware that Gabriel's nature is cuddles and snarky comments, which seems to be a trait shared among the Novak twins.

Perhaps cuddlesome goes hand-in-hand with sarcasm, however, because Michael is wrong. When he groggily sits up, there is a blonde head at the end of his bed. Michael tries to jerk his legs back, but Lucifer's too heavy. "Lucifer! Get off me!"

Lucifer hums to himself, curling up tighter. "Your bed is so comfy."

"That's not my bed," Michael grumbles, shutting his eyes. The curtains are open and the light spilling in is blinding. "That's my legs."

"Okay. You're so comfy."

"Lucifer, I told you to get off!"

Lucifer lets out an exaggerated sigh, rolling off Michael and standing up. "Whatever, Mike. It's time you got the Hell up."

"Lucifer, don't use that word."

"Which word?"

"You know perfectly well which word. Don't use it."

"Don't tell me what to do."

Michael scoffs, before cracking an eye open and glancing across at Lucifer. The boy is wearing a tightfitting t-shirt for a band Michael hasn't heard of yet doesn't exactly want to. (Lucifer's books and music make Michael feel as though he was raised on an entirely different planet.) The sleeves are rolled up and Michael doesn't quite understand how someone can have toned arms when they live in a desolate school like St. Lawrence's where there wouldn't be a gym for many miles, and he never sees Lucifer carrying anything heavier than a bowl of cereal for breakfast each morning. Probably unfair genetics, seeing as Gabriel eats more candy an hour that what Michael would in an entire month, but never seems to put any weight on.

Lucifer's not wearing the red jeans today. There's none of that damned torn crimson fabric that is unethically tight - there's not even the white jeans Michael saw once, or the navy ones he wore on Friday which fit into the dress code a lot more. At first, Michael is disappointed, and then relieved, and then outright furious when his sleep-deprived state of mind eventually recognises that Lucifer is wearing nothing but pale yellow boxer briefs.

"Put some pants on!" Michael gasps. He tears his eyes away from Lucifer's underwear, which look ridiculously the colour of sunshine and daffodils and the cream on the butter cake Michael's mother made for his seventh birthday.

"Pants?" Lucifer frowns. "Well, I am wearing pants. Unless my legs offend you..."

"He's worried about the way your balls are hanging out of the sides," Gabriel mutters from his own bed. He's under a mess of blankets, and Michael would hardly identify the man underneath his little nest if it wasn't for the fact that Raphael wouldn't dare to make a remark like that.

"His b..." Michael splutters. "I'm not concerned about his testicles!" he yelped. Lucifer actually doubles over with laughter, and Gabriel's blanket wreck shakes a little with the other Novak's every laugh.

"Oh, Jesus," Lucifer says, wiping a faux tear drop from underneath his eye. Before Michael can launch into a lecture about taking the Lord's name in vain, Raphael beats him to it.

It's strange because a few moments ago, it felt as though Michael and Lucifer were the only ones in this room, and now Gabriel and Raphael are here and the scenario is far too different to how it started.

Worst of all, Michael preferred it when it was just him and Lucifer - sans the offending yellow underpants.

Canary yellow. That’s the colour he was searching for in the catalogue of shades stored somewhere in his head, the catalogue he didn’t know existed until he first saw Lucifer’s sexy jeans and his ridiculous underwear.

Canary yellow.

 

* * *

 

Weekends at St. Lawrence's are an understandably difficult thing to adjust to when one has spent a week in classrooms, half-learning and half-being-scolded-for-wrongdoings. Dean has time to explain to Michael that they have a field trip (Dean calls them excursions) somewhere every Saturday.

Over breakfast on Saturday, Michael can't help but feel uncomfortable. He's so used to the burnt toast and uniform checks that occur regularly, that he can't blend into the crowd of blazers and ties this morning. This is the most individuality he's ever seen from the group, and it strikes him at once that these boys are not just his peers: they are individual beings with their own thoughts, and Michael wonders if men like John Winchester knows this. For a faint moment, he even wonders if God knows this.

They are served pancakes and maple syrup and what might even be freshly squeezed orange juice with any luck. And it's interesting to know that Dean wears a leather jacket and Castiel wears a trench coat. It's interesting to know that Sam's wearing a plaid shirt and Gabriel somehow finds it amusing to mock him. It's interesting to know that there's nothing new to discover about Lucifer's clothing choice, of course. Ripped jeans and tight shirt.

Of course, Lucifer decides that there's a great deal of interest involving Michael's wardrobe decisions. Michael doesn't quite understand it; wonders if Lucifer's just deliberately being annoying.

"Y'know, I never pegged you as a Converse guy," Lucifer says, his own trainers kicking at Michael's scuffed shoes underneath the table. "I kinda figured... loafers or something. Y'know?"

Michael scowls. "Just quit kicking me, Lucifer.” He scrambles his feet back, tucking his abraded blue Chuck Taylors underneath his chair.

Lucifer smiles cheekily as if to say, "make me", but Michael's withering glare actually seems to do that exact thing, with Lucifer's legs coming to an abrupt halt. Michael feels triumphant - that is, until he realises that everyone has gone quiet. Chairs scrape along tiles as the students rise. Michael doesn't even need to look any more, he just _knows_ : John Winchester is in the room, demanding attention without even trying to.

Michael glances at Lucifer, who stands with reluctance, as though respecting authority is some massive, laborious chore for him. Maybe it is.

"Good morning," John Winchester starts, looking over among the students. He appears to be briefly counting them, and Michael doesn't understand why. It was the same number at the start of the week, minus Kevin Tran. However, Michael notices when the headmaster stops counting - it's when he sees Lucifer, who is smirking softly, but all the same is in attendance.

It's the small things, the little cracks in the school's framework that Michael has begun to notice. The headmaster's quirks and somewhat deserved dislike regarding the eldest Novak brother; and the way that when John Winchester speaks, the rule is quite simple: you don't reply.

Michael remains as silent as his fellow students.

"I'm sure you're all hopeful that this excursion will be one involving the young ladies at our sister school," John says smoothly. Michael's heart flips a little - he'd do anything to see Anna again. John receives nervous laughter in response to his question, and a low wolf whistle that seems to come from Balthazar's general direction. Lucifer rolls his eyes and for a faint moment, Michael wonders if Lucifer feels uncomfortable not being able to discuss his own sexual feelings with his friends the way some of the other boys have deemed appropriate.

That's when Michael reminds himself that young men should not discuss sexual feelings, and even if they should, Lucifer deserves being stripped of that right for wanting to talk _about_ men.

John Winchester chuckles at his response, like maybe he's reliving his glory days and revelling in his own youth; or maybe he's just proud that he can cause his lesser students to _nervously_ laugh.

"Unfortunately, my staff members and I have agreed that your relationship with the girls is quite concreted," John Winchester says after the necessary pause. It seems to take another decade for him to speak once more. And during this type, Michael senses that the boys don't feel as if they've spent nearly enough tie around the girls. "Your relationship with one another, on the other hand..."

Michael hears a groan from somewhere in the room - he doesn't hear quite where it comes from though, and he assumes that their Headmaster doesn't either, or else he would have scolded the culprit without a second thought. John Winchester continues.

"Burnton Woods is a credit to this school's local area," John Winchester begins. Across from Michael, Dean seems to deflate. The rest of the school is curious, however, waiting dutifully for the headmaster to continue. Michael included.

"I'm sure you're all very aware of the reformation of the Men of Letters." (This is the first time in the week following the invocation of the seemingly old age club that it has even been mentioned.) "I, myself, was once a student at St. Lawrence's." Michael's intrigue is yet to die down. "I , too, was a member of the original Men of Letters. Burnton Woods is a valuable asset to the history of both this school and the original Men of Letters. I only hope that this generation of students, and the elitist Men of Letters gracing us today, can appreciate the Woods.

"Tonight, you will be taking part in a camp. Those of you who are not members of the Men of Letters will be trying to earn your place."

Lucifer opens his mouth to yell out to the headmaster, but thinks better of it, shutting his jaw and raising an arm for permission to speak.

John Winchester sighs, looking at Lucifer, granting that silent consent. "Yes, Novak?"

"What if we don't wanna be a part of the thing?" Lucifer asks. There's nothing disobedient about his question, or at least not intentionally. It's asked innocently, curiously, and Lucifer seems to genuinely want to know. Personally, Michael is more than willing to earn his place in the Men of Letters - if only to fit in with his peers, which is more than a little ludicrous on the surface.

"Oh, yes, Novak. I'm well aware that you didn't accept your place in the Elitist group."

"Mainly because they call themselves Elitists," Lucifer mumbled amongst the hushed silence. Now, Lucifer is being disobedient, and the Headmaster takes great care in pointing this out.

"Novak, your little _rebellion_ might be fun, but unfortunately, it's only going to damage you in the long run." It's stated, plain and simple, like a threat.

Lucifer remains unperturbed. Michael wonders how he does it.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Burnton Woods is not the gorgeous landscape Michael had expected. In his mind, he had been expecting pine or hemlock or poplar to crowd the soil, with pretty butterflies or birds or anything other than buzzing mosquitoes. When he voices this to his comrades, Gabriel snickers and calls him a romantic. Michael purses his lips.

"I think it's nice," Castiel remarks, and Dean scoffs.

"It's _barren_ ," he corrects the boy hiking beside him, and Castiel looks personally offended on behalf of the woods.

But, Dean is right. Burnton Woods is one of the least graceful places on earth. The trees are peeling paper bark and, living up to its name, burnt leaves. Broken branches fall down at any given time, and Gabriel takes advantage of this, running around and poking people with the stick whenever he finds it fun. There is no real shrubbery, just sparse and disappointing bushes, home to creepy-looking insects. At one point, Sam cups his hands and scoops up a small praying mantis, which he positions among Gabriel's hair. It's amusing to watch Gabriel squeal and bat the thing away, and it's more amusing to watch Sam laugh so hard tears spring to his eyes. Gabriel looks like he'd hit Sam, if the boy wasn't so happy.

By the time everyone has died down with the excitement, Michael realises how ridiculous this is. He's hiking along a fire trail with far too much litter decorating it, cans and cigarette butts and degraded packaging. He's standing with Ezekiel, who is a far from amusing companion. Chuck Shurley has assured his students that there's a stream up ahead, and they'll set up camp by the water. Michael prays that the stream is a nicer display than this path.

The stream is far from enlightening, though. It's undrinkable, un-swimmable muck, running along a thirty metre stretch, yet looks like it would barely be a metre deep. Michael's shoulders slump, but some other students are a little more vocal in their disapproval.

"Lame!" Dean calls out. "Dad, this is the worst excursion!"

Dean's really only joining in with the heckling. It should have been harmless but Dean is just too loud. Over the shouts of disapprobation from at least twenty five students, Dean stands out the most; but no one can quite compete over John Winchester's bellow.

"Dean Winchester! Stand here. Right now."

Silence falls upon the boys like night upon the sky. All eyes should be on Dean Winchester as he worms his way through the crowd of students, but typically, everyone stares at their shoes. It's a way of tuning out, Michael figures.

At some point, or maybe all along, Lucifer has been directly beside Michael. "It's like Mildred and her seashells," he whispered, leaning unnecessarily close to Michael.

Too fearful to speak, Michael only frowns at the blonde boy.

"Fahrenheit 451," Lucifer answers sotto voce, which doesn't exactly explain anything new to Michael. Still clearly sensing Michael's perplexity, Lucifer adds: "They just tune out." And it is then that Michael realises that Lucifer has the ability to mind read. Or something like that.

"Novak," John Winchester interrupts. Assuming that he intends to address the chatting Lucifer, both Michael's and Lucifer's heads snap up. However, it is another brother that John Winchester is referring to. His eyes are on Castiel's. With movements full of anxiety and grace, Castiel follows Dean's path.

"Castiel," John Winchester begins. "Do you think Dean is behaving appropriately?"

Castiel looks reproachful. "No," he answers honestly, an earnest frown at his features. Castiel and Dean are standing side by side, with John Winchester wedged in the middle. "But to be fair," Castiel adds, carefully, rolling words around on his tongue like he has to deduce and carefully select what is right to say. "Dean was not the only one involved."

At this response, John Winchester clenches his fists. "Don't you think Dean should be setting an example, Castiel?"

Castiel does not reply. He just stares up at John Winchester, his arms swinging leisurely by his side. Castiel is not intimidated, but Dean is unable to do much, aside from kick at the ground anxiously.

“Castiel,” John Winchester repeats: sterner. Business-like.

“I suppose so, yes.”

“Men of Letters have a reputation,” John Winchester says, as he strides out of the cramped space between Dean and Castiel: it is then that Michael realises that the gap between the pair really was quite small.

“Not only has Dean disgraced the Winchester name, but he is disgracing the Men of Letters. Wouldn’t you agree, Castiel?”

Castiel struggles to meet Dean’s eyes, a silent apology perhaps, but all Dean can do is stare at the ground; red-faced and ashamed.

“Yes,” Castiel agrees, with an evanescent glance at the decrepit woodland surrounding him, silently plotting an escape.

“Do you think this warrants a punishment?”

Castiel fidgets with a loose filament on the sleeve at the end of his trench coat. “Yes,” he echoes, voice dry.

“Do you think that, as a fellow member of the Men of Letters, it should be you who deals Dean this punishment?”

Silence. Waiting. “Yes.” Hesitation explodes into the air. “I do.”

“Push Dean into the river.”

Castiel and Dean spare the river a disgusted glimpse in synchronisation. Murky shallow water and John Winchester’s smirk await Castiel, but now is not the time to think, and Castiel’s hands lift slowly. He brings them to Dean’s back, resting his palms on Dean’s collarbones. A single shove from Castiel, pushing him only an inch, and Castiel cannot bring himself to finally force Dean into the water.

But Dean Winchester jumps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Farenheit 451 is a book written by Ray Bradbury. (Lucifer loves his dystopian novels, evidently and shamefully reflecting me.) This was probably full of errors (I don't have the patience nor time to spell- and grammar-check, so let me know if you come across anything!)


	8. Breaking Lakes

 

Dean Winchester jumps and nobody sees it. People see the tremulous splash, people see the lake’s nervous breakdown as it falls into a thousand pieces around Dean, people see the boy’s head as it emerges from the water; pallid, spluttering. But people also see  Castiel  push him, which is the intention, although Dean Winchester did jump: nobody saw it.

Except for Michael.

Michael sees  Castiel’s  arms extend to give Dean that little shove, urging him forth, but Michael also sees the  mis - footing, the way Dean stops and he does not tumble into the water, he does not trip, he bounces back on his heels and he is denim and leather erupting in the ice water. Nervous breakdown, thousand pieces. Michael can feel a droplet land on his thumb and he can feel it all day long, and sometime in the future he thinks he will glance down at his left thumb, study the grooves and prints of the digit and he can be bowled over by its significance, because Dean Winchester jumps and nobody sees it except for Michael; Dean Winchester chooses  Castiel  over his Father; Dean Winchester chooses friendship over the Men of Letters, and nobody sees it.

There is rough, warm skin touching Michael's hand. For a moment, Michael's mind is flooded by recollections of something lighter, cooler, smoother on his hand.  _ In  _ his hand, and it would be Naomi's hand, her fingers curling through Michael's. He'd always long to pull away when the grip grew too  sweaty, and he wondered if she found him disgusting, but he was just nervous.

"Michael." It isn't Naomi. It's Lucifer, and his hand is touching Michael's, and Michael wrenches away with all the force he wishes he had around the girl who destroyed his relationship with God.

(Although it is not fair to blame her.)

"What was that?" Michael hisses, spinning around to face Lucifer, who is all pleading g rey  eyes behind that carefree façade, and it's not fair to blame Lucifer for anything in that moment either.  "You can't... just take my hand," Michael sputters, as though he's  frustratedly  explaining to a small child that they can't just take their pants off in public. (Frighteningly, this also seems like something Lucifer might do.)

Although Michael expects a sassy quip from the blonde-haired boy, some unwarranted snide remark when Michael isn't the one at fault. Lucifer surprises Michael just as he rips his gaze away. Dean is being pulled out of the creek, water slushing around him gracelessly.

"What kind of music do you like?"  Lucifer asks, his hands returning to his sides, but Michael can still feel a thumb against the pulse-point at his wrist.

Michael squints at Lucifer, trying to work the boy out. "Music?" he echoes. It's an absurdity to discuss given the fact that Dean Winchester is sopping wet and coughing water from his lungs.

"Music," repeats Lucifer. "It's  kinda  the fabric of our entire lives."

That's when Michael lets out a dazzling laugh, one he didn't know existed somewhere within the pit of his soul, which feels too tainted at times. "Don't be silly," Michael tells the boy. "God is."

And Lucifer smiles back, weakly, but for the next hour, Michael is wondering what kind of music he likes.

 

* * *

They walk for miles, past weathered rocks and burnt trees. The sun looks so scorching, but it's rather bittersweet, because the ground and atmosphere is imposingly  cool. Michael's backpack exhausts his shoulders almost as much as Gabriel's pitiful jokes do. It's six hours, Michael estimates. Lucifer is sauntering a few steps of him, and Michael admires the boy in the jeans, his stomach freezing with shame and burning with arousal.

Michael decides that Lucifer's entire purpose on this universe is some kind of homosexual bait, and he's not falling for that.

Dean is dry by the time they reach the campsite.

 

* * *

 

 

Michael's tent is red. So are his favourite pair of Lucifer's multiple offending jeans, So are the colour of Lucifer's lips because he has the habit of biting them. Red suddenly strikes Michael as an incredible sinful shade. He banishes all thoughts of it from his mind. It works.

That little clique that seems to be a part of Michael's life now is gathered around a campfire. There seem to be four groups, and Michael pays no attention to any of them, other than his own. Lucifer is there, along with Gabriel, Raphael. There's the obnoxious Brit demoralising America, Balthazar; the mysterious boy who barely speaks, Ezekiel; the unnaturally extravagant Garth; along with little Sam, who seems distressed about something that he won't quite speak of. Michael hesitates asking in between the pauses in the lavish lyrics of the campfire carols Gabriel, Balthazar, and Lucifer see fit to yell out, but his comfort level with Sam borders on strangers. Eventually, Lucifer nudges the boy's knee with his bare foot. "Why the long face, Junior?" Lucifer asks.

"Boyfriend troubles?" Gabriel asks, beaming, thinking he's hilarious. Lucifer nudges his brother in the ribs.

Sam doesn't hesitate in blurting out: "I haven't seen Dean." It's as though he's been itching to say it for a while.

"Hey, don't worry," Lucifer says with a carefree shrug, and Balthazar seems ready to break out into yet another tune. "He's probably just  gettin' a dressing down from  Daddy ."

"Yeah," Gabriel agrees over the atrocity of Balthazar's solo.

"Castiel  is gone too," murmurs Michael, absent-mindedly and quietly.

"They're probably both swimming  knee-deep in their own excrement ," Balthazar chimes in, and Michael fails to see why people find him charming.

"Yeah," Gabriel assents. "Or secret Men of Whatever business."

"Letters," Ezekiel corrects, surprising most.

Sam, vaguely comforted, settles back, and Lucifer and Gabriel shuffle a little closer to warm the boy up, making him smile.

Michael isn't comforted at all though, and he rises to his feet. No one cares, except for Lucifer, who shoots him a look of accusa tion .

" Gonna  take a leak?" the boy pipes up, and Michael deflates a little. How will he ever manage to sneak away with Lucifer's grey eyes fixed on him constantly?

"No," Michael answers, and it's with a tell-tale sigh of defeat and slumping of his shoulders.

"Then what?" Lucifer thinks he has a right to know, and Michael realises then that Lucifer knew his intentions were never 'taking a leak'. Sneaky b...

"It's certainly not your business," Michael snaps, and he swivels away from the blonde, desperate to regain any ounce of composure he ever had. He stalks through the woods, and he suddenly not sure about his objective. He is going to get lost, he is sure of that, and yet what for? For Dean and  Castiel ? They probably are receiving a lecture from the headmaster, and that shouldn't be Michael's problem, but somehow it is, because he knows that Dean jumped in the water.

Not to mention the fact that Michael juvenilely feels the urge to prove a kind of independence to Lucifer. That he is more than a good Catholic boy...

Michael has never thought toxic thoughts like that before, because how could he dare to be more than good and Catholic? Isn't being loyal to God enough?

Michael's trainers are getting wrecked with damp dirt, and he'd usually keep all of his shoes in impeccable condition, but he doesn't care. He wants to find Dean and  Castiel  more than ever, now.

Michael is so caught up in his half-rampage, he almost misses a giggle coming from twenty feet away. He peers through the trees, but this is the only part of the woods where the trees are not burnt and wilting, and instead the life of the greenery flourishes and prevails. Taking a deep breath and trying to steel himself, he can't help but wonder if this is the best idea. He risks one step, and another, and soon enough he is walking straight towards the source of the sound on legs that do not feel like his own.

Ducking behind a tree, Michael finds a leather jacket hanging from a branch. He frowns. It's clearly Dean's, with those distinct faded markings and that vintage brown tint. Then, the atmosphere tenses around him, and Michael can feels eyes glued on his back.

He inhales deeply and swivels around, and he sees an image more powerful than Dean Winchester jumping into that shattering ocean. Dean's arm is strangled around  Castiel's  waist, the two pushed so inhumanly close,  Castiel's  hand gripping Dean's thigh.

Dean pulls away as though  Castiel  had spontaneously combusted, and  Castiel  peers up at Michael with the strange aesthetic of a kicked puppy, but Michael can't even breathe, he can't even breathe, especially not when he notices how flushed their cheeks are and how wet and swollen their lips are and  he can't breathe.

And perhaps there is a 'Michael, wait', as Michael steps back, like he might take off running to snitch, which he very well should. But perhaps Michael still can't move. His speech is relatively unaffected, aside from a manifested tremble. "I'll pray for you," he assures the couple.  The couple.

Castiel laxes, but Dean tenses.

"Just don't tell."

Michael doesn't want to promise anything because he needs to tell, and lying is a sin. He abandons them, sprinting as far as way as he could, with little regard to the fact that he was going in the completely wrong direction.

* * *

 

 

Michael is not quite sure of any of this.

He is sitting down by a stream, legs dangling in, trying to organise his thoughts. He thinks about homosexuality, and Jesus, and  Castiel  Novak and Dean Winchester, and music. And Men of Letters and his sister and his parents and  Castiel  Novak  and Dean Winchester. And-Naomi-and-science-and-maths and  how this stream is shallower than the breaking lake. Michael's feet touch the bottom.  It would be worthless if one wanted to drown oneself.

Michael wants to sit here forever. His stomach will starve and his bones will tire and he will waste away, but then he can forget about that dark and dirty secret he knows. Dean and  Castiel .

And there is something miniscule in the back of his brain that makes him think of Lucifer, but it's an irritating niggling and he can be rid of it, he's sure. Just like Dean and  Castiel  can be rid of all this. Michael just needs to find a way. But he can fix them.

* * *

 

 

Michael finds his way back almost two hours later; stumbling, cold. There is no welcoming embraces, no greetings, just a few tight smiles and a 'hey, where'd you get off to?' from Balthazar, before a snide remark ensued about there not being  _nearly_ enough privacy at St. Lawrence's, dorms and camps, for masturbation.

Michael chuckles, weakly. Because he is nervous, and because this is the closest he will ever get to an 'I missed you'.

"Are Dean and  Castiel  here?" he asks, his throat dry and voice hoarse.

"Yes, came back a couple hours ago. Demanded a tent transfer. Think they had a lover's spat?" Balthazar is only joking, and Michael knows this, but his chest constricts and he feels his blood boil at the very word  _lover_. But he offers the other boy a wry smile to try and ditch the topic.

Michael's mind eases but his stomach tears at his flesh when Lucifer approaches him, a tiny grin tugging at the corner of the blonde's pink lips. "You in a good mood?"

Far from it. "Does it show?"

"Yeah. Heard you laugh and saw you smile. Reckon I should enter the lottery?" Lucifer teases.

Michael huffs, meeting Lucifer's eyes and allowing himself to relax. Because it might just be a good thing. He can trust Lucifer and, for this moment, he needs it.

"Lucifer?" Michael asks after a pause, when the amount of time they spend staring at one another becomes uncomfortable and awkward .

"Mm?" Lucifer responds, which Michael can only assume is a 'yes'.

Michael takes a moment to consider what he wants to say. He wants to tell Lucifer about Dean and  Castiel, or perhaps bring up the uncomfortable topic of homosexual somehow. Instead, Michael stumbles and trips on his own words, and very quietly, he says, "Can you teach me about music?"

 

Michael is drawn up close in his sleeping back, Lucifer huddled obscenely close, and Michael doesn't mind. It feels very good to have a  friend. It takes his mind off of homosexuality and Dean and  Castiel . Besides, it's a small tent, they can't help but be close, and they need to squeeze together so that the earphones stretch across.

Lucifer plays old bands, like the Cure and the Smiths, and Michael tells Lucifer that This Charming Man is his favourite. And he plays older bands, like the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, and Michael shifts uncomfortably when he hears Mick Jagger's vulgarity, loud and clear, and Lucifer chuckles. And there are newer bands, like Arctic Monkeys and Franz Ferdinand and there's even a song called Michael, which is very disgusting and very homosexual, but Michael pretends not to notice because it isn't something he wants to think about, enthusing that it's a great song.

And they continue on until Chuck  Shurley shushes them, and it's hardly threatening but Michael isn't game enough to ignore the warning, so he pulls the little shell from his ear and abandons it between them, and Michael drifts off to sleep with eerily familiar lyrics tinkling from the tiny speaker.

_ We will go outside, when the lights come on inside,  
But we will all be fine, if we read what they will write for us... _

And Michael doesn't think about Dean and Castiel until the next morning.


	9. Fine Lines

* * *

 

When Michael awakes that morning, there is a crack of light streaming in from the barely open door flap of the tent, and it shines directly on Lucifer’s face: straight through the centre, erupting a pretty stream of light on one side, and dim, unaffected glow on the other.

Lucifer smiles in his sleep. It’s unnerving.

Michael rolls away from the boy, closes his eyes, and drifts into a semi-conscious state, and it’s one of the most pleasant things he has been able to do for weeks. Since the satisfaction of being able to reach across and take Naomi’s hand and knowing she would squeeze back. Perhaps even better than that now forgotten sensation of reciprocated affection.

 

* * *

 

 

 

To Michael, there is nothing as vaguely satiating as the sensation of being able to feel your bones crack as you stand, as if your flesh contains a little sizzling fire. There is also nothing as frustrating as Lucifer Novak grabbing your leg and giving it a tug so you fall, and practically knock the tent out around them.

“Lucifer,” Michael growls, kicking Lucifer away and landing a fair pack on the other boy’s shoulder. “Grow up,” he demands.

Lucifer chuckles, as though the very idea of adulthood is a joke. All things considered, it is.

“Come cuddle,” Lucifer wails with all the elegance of a starved cat, and Michael’s skin crawls. He huffs, starting on rolling up his sleeping bag, trying to make each fold as tight as he possibly can. He never manages well with getting it fitted back into its allocated sack.

“Is that a joke?” Michael witters, restraining a heavy sigh from escaping his chest and mouth once he looks at the unattractive lump his sleeping bag has become: and an oversized one at that. There’s no way it’s going to fit. His shoulders drop and he unfurls the bag.

 _Mach II_ , he tells himself as he gets started on it again.

“You're being cold,” Lucifer states, as if it’s a simple fact, like: the sky is blue; the grass is green; red is a sinful colour, et cetera.

Michael can’t help but exhale with the tiniest of snorts. “No. I’m trying to fold a sleeping bag. It’s hard.”

Lucifer rolls his eyes, stretching his legs. Michael can just hear his bones crack. “It ain’t _that_ hard,” he tells Michael, and Michael finds himself narrowing his eyes disapprovingly at Lucifer before he returns his attention to the loosely rolled sleeping bag and curses himself for allowing that stupid blonde distraction.

“If you have nothing of worth to…”

“If you have nothing nice to say, don’t say it?” Lucifer asks, eyes twinkling with something way too knowing as he parrots that ancient anthem Michael’s mother would say over and over and over, broken record player.

“Something like that.” Michael struggles to focus all of his attention on his mess of a sleeping bag, wondering why the manufacturers couldn’t just make the carry bags a little larger for everyone’s convenience.

Lucifer moves onto pop each knuckle on his hands, Michael can hear it. He counts each crackle and winces. “You’ll give yourself arthritis,” Michael pipes up. It’s what his teachers used to say to wean him off the habit.

“Never been proven,” Lucifer counters, and Michael can’t exactly argue, because of course Lucifer is the type to research every last word everyone has ever had ever. Someone that analytical could even be dangerous, Michael realises. There are just two people that Michael believes are more dangerous than Lucifer Novak: John Winchester, and of course, God himself.

Michael growls as he unravels the sleeping bag once more, prepared to give up. One last try and then perhaps he’ll shove it all in.

Each roll is surely as compact as Michael can physically muster, and he is growing increasingly frustrated. Lucifer is chuckling as he watches.

“Well, I don’t see you helping,” Michael criticises, but he doesn’t expect Lucifer to tiredly unzip his sleeping back and amble out of it ungracefully. Although it’s a kind action as Lucifer crawls over and bats Michael’s hands away, Michael sees it as nothing less than some blatant personal attack, and so he grimaces. “You don’t _have_ to,” he intervenes, to Lucifer’s chagrin.

“Ha, yeah,” Lucifer scoffs, shaking his head disbelievingly as he starts on the bag. He folds it in half with deft hands. Lucifer’s hands are chalky: pale, and rough, and Michael wonders how different it would feel to take a man’s hand rather than a woman’s soft, dainty one, like Naomi’s.

He wonders what the appeal is. Why any man would do it. Sin for a rough, dirty hand.

But they are more than just chalky. They are nimble, and swift, and Michael is enticed by the brisk motions. Though that has more to do with the fact that Lucifer actually manages to get his sleeping bag actually rolled up into a tidy little knot, and Michael holds the kit open as Lucifer shoves it back inside.

“See?” Lucifer jeers, and Michael wants to slap that smirk off his face. “Ain’t that hard.”

“You’re a pain,” Michael quips. Unoriginally, yes, and it of course leaves Lucifer unaffected.

“Now will you come cuddle with me?”

Even if Michael had agreed, acquiesced perhaps, Lucifer wouldn’t have believed him. In fact, Lucifer doesn’t even grace Michael with the time to reply, because he’d already started on folding his own sleeping bag up.

Not that it matters, of course; it just further illustrates that Lucifer is incredibly rude.

 

* * *

 

On the hike home, Michael wonders again about whether or not God did give him a purpose for being on this Earth, but it’s hard to think when Lucifer Novak is humming lyrics to dance music from the 1980s behind him.

 

* * *

 

The tall gates loom above Michael and his classmates, wrought iron and rust. “I hope you all enjoyed your camp,” the Headmaster announces as he slowly steers the gate open, and Michael has flashbacks of Dean Winchester jumping into a lake and Dean Winchester kissing Castiel Novak, and he did not enjoy a single second of it. The rest of the group seems to share this opinion, although for greatly differing reasons.

“The food was crap,” Gabriel yells out, amidst Balthazar’s and Lucifer’s cries about a lack of jerking off space and pain in the ass tent partners, and all three find themselves silenced by the headmaster as Lucifer offers a quelling wink to Michael in response to the protest Michael was fighting back upon hearing his tent-mate’s complaints.

“Fantastic,” drawls John when he gathers a moment of peace. “Yet I was hoping for a more mature response. After all, we have our annual prom for men, not boys,” he reminds them, and everyone seems to fizzle with tension for a moment. Michael doesn’t quite understand all of the fuss, until someone calls out, “With St. Mary’s?”

Michael recalls St. Mary’s in an instant. It’s the sister school for this one, the one a few miles away that Michael’s parents forced his sister, Anna, into attending when they carted Michael here.  And, as always, the idea of getting to see her again, is… well.

As children, Anna and Michael were rather close. He’d defend her against any of the bullies who dared to mock her ginger hair or stature, which often meant he’d take a couple of beatings, but he didn’t exactly mind. As her brother, he saw it as his duty.

Anna was a picture of innocence. Their parents often paraded their children around proudly, claiming that they were practically reincarnations of angels, which turned them into more of a mockery, both among teachers who suffered the rants from Michael’s mother, and students who overheard.

It feels odd, not seeing Anna every day. Not arguing over who got to use the bathroom first (Michael took even longer with his hair than her), not helping her with tricky maths questions, but not even missing her all that much, just missing the fact that there used to always be someone there to talk to. He wondered what she would tell him to do about Dean and Castiel.

“There will be three meetings with the young ladies of St. Mary’s in the upcoming month,” John Winchester continues, and he’s captured the attention of everyone, so it seems. “The first will be Saturday afternoon, you will all have chances to introduce yourselves to the young women. Then, the following week, you will meet again. The third and final week is your opportunity to ask the woman you desire to accompany you.”

There are hushed whispers of excitement, and it takes Michael a second to register that this is perhaps the only time every year these young men get to see other people, apart from holidays when they visit their families; and not all of them even have that opportunity. So, he can allow a little happiness, although a date is the last thing on his mind right now. He just wants to see his little angel of a sister, and from previous experience, dates have only lead to sin.

“The prom will take place on the fifteenth, the week following your exams,” the Headmaster announces. “Anyone who does not pass a minimum of four subjects will not be eligible to attend.”

Michael doesn’t see that he has much to worry about. For as long as he can remember, he’s been an exemplary student. His record is clean of any failed exams or incomplete assignment tasks. Several students on the other hand (Gabriel, Dean, Lucifer) groan at the rule. Michael thinks that the problem is not a lack of intelligence, but rather apathy.

“Any questions?” Silence sweeps across the room, and the Headmaster straightens up slightly. “That will be all, thank you. Get ready for dinner,” he dismisses his pupils, and the crowd merges through the gates towards the leering dormitories, and Michael wonders what they’re all in such a hurry for. Himself included.

 

* * *

 

Raphael heads into the shower first, without communicating this to everyone else. Michael is surprised, finding it rude, but Lucifer and Gabriel just muttered something about the typicality of it, so Michael lets it slip. When Raphael finally emerges, there’s a tackle and a few soft punches (Michael winces, wondering how that could be worth a lukewarm shower) before an exhausted Lucifer manages to slip into the ground. Raphael excuses himself wordlessly as he heads outside, seemingly off to the library while Gabriel, with a fresh bruise just below his eye, growls to himself as he plops down on his bed.

“He’s such an ass,” Gabriel hisses, folding his arms over his chest. “I called dibs.”

Michael chuckles softly to himself. “He is an ass.”

“I don’t know how. I’m a delight to be around, and Castiel is pretty much Mister-Perfect in our family.”

Right. Perfect. Still, Michael finds himself at ease conversing with Gabriel. It’s almost like he could tell Gabriel about his little brother being as gay as Lucifer.

Yeah, right. But, Michael does find himself able to ask Gabriel something else. “Hey, Gabriel?” he asks after a bout of silence. “If I knew that someone had done something really bad – the most miserable sin imaginable –” (Perhaps not, but it was certainly on that list.) “– a student. Two students. Something that would get them kicked out of the school most certainly. Would I tell the Headmaster?”

Gabriel squinted at Michael as if Michael had asked what the meaning of the universe was. “Is some secret homicide-suicide pact taking place?” he eventually asks.

Michael nearly chokes on the air he was breathing. “No! I… not quite extreme. Just… can you please answer the question. Should I tell our Headmaster?”

Gabriel shrugs laboriously. “I guess you should. It’s not about that, though.”

Michael tilts his head questioningly. “What is it about, then?”

“There’s what you should do for the sake of being a good Christian, the sake of being all squeaky clean of evil,” Gabriel explains. “You’ve already got that side down right. What you don’t have all figured out is what you should do for the sake of being a good person. A good friend. You know?”

Michael’s frown deepens. “Being a good Christian and a good person are there same thing,” he says lamely, but he knows that’s a lie. The only reason he’s avoiding telling John Winchester is the friendship between himself, Dean, and Castiel. The relationship he has with those boys is vastly different to his allegiance to God.

“You really think this is Christianity?” Gabriel asks, gesturing wildly around him. “This isn’t Christianity, it isn’t Catholicism, Mike. It’s a cult. It’s different.”

Michael shifts uncomfortably. “How?” he presses.

“Isn’t Christianity about loving God?”

Michael pauses. “Of course it is.”

Gabriel meets Michael’s eyes, and he feels quite cold just doing so. “This school? You think they’re teaching you to love God more?” he asks. “No, Michael. They’re teaching you to hate everything else until you have no one, nothing left.”

Michael blinks, a little startled. It reminds him of a slice of advice once offered to him by Dean, something about, _you'll stop being a Christian because you love God and start because you hate evil_.

“That’s not… I’m fairly certain about my religion,” Michael assures Gabriel, though he can’t quite decide if this school has truly aided him on his quest to find God’s forgiveness since the Naomi incident. Surely it has. Michael doesn’t feel temptations. Then again, he never has. He simply fell into a trap. Of course.

But he doesn’t feel any closer to God, either.

“If you say so,” said Gabriel with a little shrug. “I’m just giving you my two cents, just like you asked for,” he explains. “Good luck, okay? You’ll figure it out eventually.”

Michael sighs, rubbing his eyes. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll be back soon, alright?” he assures Gabriel as he hears Lucifer shut the water off, rising from the bed he’s sitting on.

Gabriel frowns. “You’re gonna do it, huh?” he asks.

Michael stiffens as he nears the door. “I have to,” he tries to explain. Gabriel doesn’t stop him, and Michael knows that this has purely been his very own decision.

He doesn’t allow himself to doubt it as he ambles across the lawn towards the head office, pulling his coat tighter around his body. That would be doubting his religion and relationship with God, and he has done far too much of that. He refuses to.

Reaching that daunting building, there is blood pounding in Michael’s ears and obscene images flooding his brain. Dean’s fingers threaded through Castiel’s, their chapped lips meeting for just a few moments. He can’t quite process all of it as being anything but evil as he barges through the front office, seeming to stagger the poor receptionist, and Michael feels the need to apologise. “Sorry,” he says instantly. “It… the window,” he says, shutting the door behind him.

The receptionist looks around the same age as Michael’s mother. She looks very similar to his mother, actually. It isn’t the hair (Michael’s mother had hair as pitch black as night, though grey at it roots, whereas the receptionist hair is lighter, livelier) nor the skin (the receptionist is tanned, as though she has spent many hours of labour and recreation underneath the hot Kansas sun, whereas Michael’s mother confined herself indoors at the wishes of Michael’s father, leading a simple life of cleaning). It’s all in the eyes. Not the colour, not the shape. It’s the weary lines framing the eyes, the dark streaks that no make-up can hide. It occurs to Michael that he has never seen an adult without those lines, those obvious marks of age.

“How can I help you, honey?” she asks, blinking up from the mess of paperwork on the desk in front of her. Michael tentatively steps closer.

“I need to speak with the Headmaster,” he explains carefully. The reception area is nice. The walls are painted pale yellow. There’s a painting of sunflowers behind him, though upon further inspection it isn’t an attractive one. Although it could be dated as fairly recent, it’s clear that the artist has tried to make it look as ancient as possible. It’s painted with sickly acrylic yellows and greens.

“Take a seat, darlin’,” the receptionist permits, and goes back to frowning at the paper on her desk. “He’s just with a student now, his door’s shut. Should be free soon, you don’t mind waiting?”

Now would be a fantastic opportunity for Michael to turn away, but he doesn’t. That should make him feel brave, but he doesn’t think he could feel more cowardly than this.

“Not at all,” he replies feebly, sitting down on the blue leather couch, which is softer than it looks, taking Michael by surprise. The uneasy feeling in his stomach doesn’t fade, his heart seeming to beat faster than the one-finger taps at the keyboard that the receptionist makes.

He looks to his right, and then realises that once, his parents sat here as they arranged for Michael, their sinning son, to be accepted into this elite boarding school and given the opportunity to change his filthy ways. There’s a glossy brochure to his side, and he picks it up, skimming through the pages.

_St. Lawrence’s Academy for Boys: A Brief History  
The school opened in 1984, with founding headmaster Henry Winchester intending the school to be a prestigious learning environment for youths wishing to devote their essence to an utmost love for God. St. Lawrence’s first year commenced with just 16 students, including the headmaster’s own son, John (who, almost thirty years later, holds the position of headmaster). Today, the school runs with approximately one hundred students, and aims to add a freshman year by 2016._

Michael pushes a hand over his face. It didn’t tell him anything at all that he needed to know. He glances at the glass coffee table, seeing dozens of copies of the exact same brochure.

It was then that a small book, not a brochure as such, caught his eye. It looked like a pocket diary, bound with black leather. He gingerly lifts it up, the didactic label bearing: _For teacher use only._

It’s clearly been left here by mistake, and Michael knows that he should return it, perhaps give it to the kindly office lady.

But he doesn’t. Instead he opens it to the very front page. It’s dated, the paper yellowed with time, the words that the pencil has made are scratched and faded, but Michael can read it, that ancient script in front of him.

 _Men of Letters, 1985_  
President: John Winchester  
Vice President: Robert Singer  
Secretary: Metatron Novak  
Treasurer: Richard Roman  
Zachariah Enoch, William Harvelle, Fergus McLeod, Charles Shurley

Michael’s head is reeling with the severe magnitude of the words on the page in front of him.  John Winchester, yes, was the president of the original Men of Letters. There are dozens of unheard names, but there are familiar ones, and it seems to complicate things in Michael’s mind somehow, especially as he flicks through the book. Half of the members have been removed and replaced by the following year, and as Michael reaches 1992, there is not even enough members for a secretary and treasurer. There’s no 1993.

Michael flinches, stuffing the book down the back of the couch when he hears the Headmaster’s door swing open. He goes to dust himself off, trying to look as proper as possible before he makes the admission to the Headmaster that his son is engaging in homosexual relations with another man. As he rises to his shaking feet, he is met with the very son he was preparing to betray, Dean Winchester.

“Dean,” Michael says, looking much like a deer caught in headlights. It’s obvious what he’s come here to do: expose Dean for what he is. Dean knows it, and Michael knows it.

“Hey there, Michael,” Dean says, strangely cool, though Michael can see perspiration at Dean’s brow. “What are you doing here?”

Michael stiffens. “I was…” he begins, but he’ll never know what his excuse would have been, because Dean continues as though he’d never asked Michael a question in the first place.

“It’s funny I’ve bumped into you here,” says Dean with a soft chuckle, and its then that Michael realises how scared Dean actually is. It’s in his eyes. He’s terrified. “I was just talking to my Dad about you.”

Michael knows it’s a well-crafted lie. He’s not an idiot, but his interest spikes with each second. “About me?”

“About you,” says Dean with a short nod.

“What… what were you saying?” Michael asks, amazed with the effortless lie Dean is telling.

A tiny grin finds its way to Dean’s lips. “I was recommending you to him as a potential member of the Elitist Men of Letters.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know of any errors you found in the fic! :)


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